Fly Me to the Moon
by A G Moore
Summary: Harvey Dent is a charming man; that much is fact in Gotham. Even Mr. J knows this. He also knows that Dent is smitten with Christine Villiers and intends to show him the difference between a good and a bad surprise. Harvey/OFC, Joker/OFC, AU Movieverse
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This started as nothing much, but I decided to keep with it near the end. I have a few ideas that I'm bouncing around. Basically, in the coming chapters, there's going to be a fight and Joker will end up with a bloodied nose. That's as far as I've planned, to be honest, but I really like how this has fallen so far!

Also, this story takes place before TDK in a lovely world where Rachel Dawes does not exist. Just thought you should know. :)

* * *

There was not a single night that the Villiers' restaurant was not full to the brim. It was the same with each champagne glass in the place. You went to Villiers' to get away from the boring day-in and day-out, to feel special, to be kicked back to the good old days. The place had been a huge success since its opening in the late 30s, the present owner a descendant of the very first. Despite the changing world around the restaurant and dance hall, the demeanor in which you were greeted and served with had not changed. The songs that played from the four piece band at the front played the same tunes. The waiters and waitresses wore the same suits and dresses. They even seemed to smile the same honest, beaming smile.

Christine Villiers sat at the long glass bar, one ankle tucked behind the other, tapping her nails on the bottom of her wine glass. She was the daughter of the current proprietor. Even though she was young, scarcely skimming the surface of twenty, she seemed to have been pulled directly out of an old film. Her hair was long and dark, falling into waves around her bare shoulders, framing her pale, heart-shaped face. Tonight, the same as all nights before that one, she was dressed to the nines. Or, as many of the male customers of the establishment would have said, the tens. Her dress was a form-fitting pale pink number, sliding across her hips and down her legs, all the way to the floor. No number of bracelets and rings could punctuate her ensemble like the knowing smile at her full red lips.

Once a week, on Thursday afternoon, Villiers' was visited by one of Gotham's more noted figures. He would walk in alone, an aura of confidence and charisma melting off of his wide shoulders, gleaming in his white smile. Harvey Dent. District Attorney. Few waitresses could handle bringing him his glass of water, much less inquiring as to what he wanted. All it took was a soft smile from the man and they'd be sent into mild shock. And that was why, when Dent arrived, Christine was called upon. She stood from her place at the bar, checking her appearance quickly in the reflective surface, and made her way over to his table.

The table was a special one. It was the one that the original Villiers' himself dined at while he was still alive and kicking. After that, only the highest honored guests were allowed to sit there. Harvey had gotten the opportunity after wining and dining Christine's father, donating a hearty sum to Villiers' favorite charity. With that, he had been allowed into the "family," and had been given a seat of honor.

The moment that Harvey rested his eyes upon Christine, an even wider, dimpled smile melted across his lips. She replied with one of her own, glancing at the chair beside him with a questioning eyebrow. He stood, moving behind the chair and pulling it out for her. "Good afternoon," he chuckled as he held his hand out to her. She placed her fingers into his palm and slipped down onto the seat. He pushed her in, his hand squeezing hers softly, a hardly noticeable gesture.

"Afternoon, Mr. Dent," Christine said, smiling. "What are you to have?" She watched with an amused look in her eyes as he sat down and began to look over the menu. He always got the same thing - duck. 'It's the restaurant's specialty for a reason,' he would often say, content with his meal as well as his company. "The usual?"

"If I ordered something else," he said slowly, his striking blue eyes roaming over the menu, feigning interest in the other items, "would it surprise you?" He looked up at her as he said this, blonde hair falling across his high forehead.

Leaning back against the red brocaded chair, Christine folded her hands in her lap, "I'd ask you what you've done with Harvey Dent, to be honest."

Harvey chuckled at this, nodding. "I come here every Thursday for the duck. You always ask me what I want. I always pretend that I am going to surprise you." He placed the menu face up onto the table. "I'll be having the usual." He grinned, splaying his long fingers across the white tablecloth. "As usual."

"I expect nothing less," she murmured, her lips twisting into another wide smile. "And for your drink? A cocktail? Wine? Perhaps a beer?" She said this in a teasing voice, lacing and unlacing her fingers in her lap.

"Water," he grinned.

Christine laughed, "Water. Should I go tell someone, or do you think we should be waited upon?" She glanced around the large room. Harvey's table was raised above the rest. There was a staircase that spilled out onto the dance floor before the stage. Around the dance floor were many tables, all cloaked with the same white tablecloth and surrounded by the same red brocade chairs. There was a woman headed in their direction, a false smile on her face. Bless her; she was nervous.

Before she was even able to speak, Christine was already rattling off what Harvey intended to order. She did not need to even think about it, having given the order many, many times before to many, many different waitresses. "The Villiers' signature braised duck with a large glass of water. Light on the sauce, heavy on the duck," she said with a sure smile before motioning for the waitress to go on about her business. "Take your time, love."

When the waitress was gone, Christine turned and gave Harvey a shrug. He gave a short bark of disbelieving laughter. "I should let you make my speeches," he chuckled, glancing down at the table and running his fingers over the gilded edge of the menu. "I would have a higher approval rating, that's for damn sure."

"Eh." Christine reached over, patting the hand closest to her. "They'd miss you." She looked into his face, a warm melting feeling seeping into her muscles as she did so. From his strong brow to his chiseled features, his cleft chin, his steady, reassuring smile - he was every inch someone that she could trust in. That was part of his charm. "Anyway, I don't have your strong, manly presence. I doubt Gotham would feel very safe with a weak woman at their head."

"I don't think you're weak, Christine," Harvey said softly, turning his hand over and grasping hers. Her fingers fell open, exposing her palm, which he massaged with his thumb. "A weak woman wouldn't have turned down so many offers from a big, strong, manly presence."

The tell-tale prickle of a blush burned at her cheeks, but she did not give him the pleasure of watching her squirm under the weight of his personality. "I suppose I am a lot stronger than I give myself credit for," she laughed, sliding her hand away from his and bringing it back onto her lap. Turning her face away from him, she glanced in the direction of the bar. "Where is that girl with your water? Honestly." She turned back to him with a nod, "I'll go get it for you myself."

When she stood, Harvey reached for her hand to keep her there, but he missed, grasping merely air. He pulled his arm back to rest against the corner of the table, heaving a heavy sigh. If that girl wasn't so god damn stubborn…

Christine descended the stairs quickly, the short train of her dress pouring down behind her. She crossed the side of the dance floor and rushed to the bar, her chest rising and falling with quick breaths. The bartender came to her, leaning against the bar with a smile. "What do you want, Christine? The usual?"

"The usual for Dent, not for me," she chuckled, still a bit out of breath.

Beside her sat a man with a hat pulled down low over his features, obscuring them. "Afternoon, ma'am," he slurred in a low voice, "Is that Dent you're with one of the Harvey variety?"

Christine nodded absently, dusting her hair back away from her face. "Yes, he is." The bartender placed an ice cold glass of water in front of her with a nod, and she took it, casting a wary look at the stranger before moving away from the bar.

When she returned to the table, Harvey was leaning back against his chair, watching her. "You know," he began as she sat down this time by her own accord, "I am having quite a dilemma here. Would you like to hear about it?"

"I'm sure you're going to tell me," she muttered, sliding his water across to him. He nodded his thanks.

"You see, while you were over there at the bar, I realized how beautiful you are from a distance," he said offhandedly. Her blush deepened. "So now I'm trying to figure something out. Are you more beautiful when you're standing far away or when you're sitting right beside me?"

Christine cleared her throat, averting her eyes from his face. "How should I know? I don't have opinions on such things."

"Well, here's my logic, since I'm sure you're dying to know," he said with another genuinely amused chuckle. "When you're all the way over there, you're not able to turn a cold shoulder on me. I can merely admire your form, and even your laugh should you laugh loud enough." He leaned forward, turning her chin toward him with subtle strength in his fingers. She looked up at him with her wide hazel eyes, and he smiled. "But when you're this close, I can see every detail - your eyelashes, the upturned tip of your nose, the spot where your lipstick has rubbed off on your chin." He chuckled, passing his thumb beneath her bottom lip, wiping away the scarlet remnants.

"Please don't, Harvey," Christine murmured, her hand moving up to pull his away from her face. "You know that this can't happen."

Harvey took his hand back, stung, his brows knitted together. "Can't or won't?"

Christine sighed, rubbing her hand that had held his. "I suppose that I should've said 'shouldn't.' You know that daddy doesn't like me getting involved with customers, especially influential customers."

"How old are you, again? I seem to forget. With every mention of 'daddy,' I feel older and older."

"Don't be like this," Christine muttered, bending her neck to look into his downcast eyes. "Didn't you hear me? I said that it shouldn't happen. It just may. This isn't about me. You have paraded around the subject, avoiding it. You've never asked me to go anywhere with you, to leave the restaurant. You just assume that I'll understand your hints."

Harvey looked up at her, a faintly confused look in his eyes. "Well, you obviously do understand them, if you know that they're there."

Christine shrugged, her shoulders slouched slightly. "Just be straight with me, Harvey. It shouldn't be that difficult."

"What do you want me to say? Do you want me to tell you that I've come to this restaurant for the past year and half, once a week, to see you? The duck isn't even that good, not enough to have it every week. I just can't stay away. Do you want me to tell you that I keep hoping that you'll say something instead of me? Every time you go to speak, I hope that what comes out of it is a suggestion. I can't stand making every decision for myself. I'm so used to leading people in, persuading them to do what I feel is right. I don't know how to guide them myself."

"You should've just told me," Christine chuckled. Harvey's eyebrows seemed to dip even closer together. She was laughing at him. Laughing with him was not an option, since he had been rendered completely silent. "I think I need a drink."

She left once more, but not before leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. A faint reddish pair of lips remained.

When she reached the bar, the tender was beaming at her. "Back so soon? Did Mr. Dent enjoy his water?"

"I dunno," Christine smiled, "I don't remember him even taking a single drink of it. Can I get, uhm, a glass of wine?" When he asked her what sort, she chuckled, "Surprise me!"

She rested her hip against the seat she stood next to and glanced at the man beside her. He was the same one from just a moment earlier. He did not turn to her, but he smiled a wolfish smile, staring straight ahead. "That's not a very good idea, Christine," he said in a low, teasing voice. It was not odd for someone she had never met to know her name, but it was the way he said it that made her uneasy. She moved her weight onto the opposite foot, biting at the inside of her mouth. "Not all surprises are good surprises."

"What do you mean by that?" she asked, clearing her throat in an attempt to steady the quiver in her voice. "Who _are_ you?"

The man was dressed from head to toe in two colors - purple and green. The garish colors were not easy on the eyes, but neither was the fabric his ensemble was composed of. His jacket was a poorly constructed purple brocade. His slacks were the same color, but made of harsh, plain fabric. The shirt beneath the jacket was silk and lime green.

He brought his index finger to his lips and passed his tongue along the skin, bringing it back down against the edge of the wineglass and running it around the outside. There was a low hum from the belly of the glass, and the man smiled again. This one was more subtle. "An admirer," he chuckled as the hum grew louder. He yanked his finger away from the glass and the sound stopped immediately. "One of many, it seems."

"Don't let this weirdo bother you, Christine," the bartender laughed, quite amused by himself. He pushed the glass of rich red wine across the bar, giving her a reassuring smile.

The man beside her thought this was quite funny as well, much funnier than the bartender, and let out a rip of loud laughter. His laugh seemed to come from his toes, coursing through his very being, from his shaking shoulders to his lungs that pushed for bursts of air that were replaced with short wheezes. "Oh," he snickered, "Oh, you're a funny one. 'Weirdo,' he says!" Suddenly, he stopped laughing, his hand falling down against the bar, his fingers spread. When he next spoke, it was in a low growl. "You should be a comedian."

Christine picked up the glass of wine, taking a long, unsure breath before thanking the bartender and hurrying quickly away from the man at the bar. He glanced back at her, his eyes flashing and a sinister smile at his scarred lips.

"Who on Earth were you talking to?" Harvey said with a measured smile when she returned. "He doesn't seem like the typical Villiers' customer, that's for sure. What odd colors for a suit."

"His is nothing like yours," Christine smiled, her eyes moving from Harvey's impeccable suit to the man still sitting at the bar. He was hunched over his glass, his wide shoulders slouched inward, as if sharing a secret with his booze.

Harvey grinned, "You sure are forthright with your compliments tonight, Miss Villiers."

"I never compliment those that do not deserve it," she said with a similar smile. She sighed happily into the comfortable silence that fell around them. Being around Harvey melted the chill that had crept into her bones while in the company of the mysterious man at the bar. She felt so safe when he was around - admired and cherished. There was no greater feeling in the world. "Has your duck come yet?"

"I sent it back."

Christine shot him a shocked expression. "Was it not cooked to your liking, sir?"

Harvey stood up, moving around to the back of her chair, placing his hands on her shoulders. He leaned down, his lips mere inches from her ear, "Since my secret's out, I felt I no longer needed to pretend that I enjoyed the duck."

She flushed, lifting her hand and placing it lightly on his. "Are you leaving?"

"Not quite yet," he sighed, taking in a deep breath. Her hair smelled like the rest of her, the faint feminine aroma of flowers. "I was wondering if you'd care to dance."

Christine leaned to the side, looking up at him. He was staring down at her, a dimpled, boyish grin at his mouth, "I'd love to dance! But, I must admit that I am not the greatest dancer in the world."

"There's no need," he chuckled, taking her hand in his and lifting her up into a standing position, lacing his fingers with hers. "Neither am I."

When they made their way down onto the dance floor, everyone seemed to turn in their chairs and watch them. The band had just begun a new song, a familiar tune for nearly everyone in the room, Sinatra's "Come Fly With Me." Harvey pulled her close against him, holding her hand high in his and his other resting against the curve of her hip. They began to move back and forth to the music, along with the other couples.

Everything seemed to slow down around them. They had never been this close to each other. Their hands had touched. She had given him a kiss on the cheek. Never before had she felt him flush against her. The feeling itself was foreign to her, to be pressed against a body that hummed with life, sparsely muscled, and distinctly masculine. He, too, had been surprised at how she felt in his arms. This had been a good surprise.

At the bar, the man had swirled around on the barstool and now sat with one long leg crossed over the other, his foot bobbing up and down with the song. His elbows rested against the bar, holding him up, and he glanced over his shoulder at the bartender, who was watching Dent and the lady. "Do you dance?" Before he was able to hear an answer from him, the man giggled, "I dance. I dance a lot better than he does."

He spun back around in his chair and hunched over his glass again, turning his back to Christine and Harvey. He looked up at the bartender, who was doing his best to ignore him. A sneer was evident at his lip, but it was against company policy to be condescending to a customer. He had messed up once. He wouldn't do it again. "I wouldn't want to dance with you anyway." Laughing, the man reached forward, roughly tousling the man's dark hair. "I much prefer blondes."


	2. Chapter 2

The man returned the very next day. Christine had been sitting on her usual barstool, sighing every few moments, bored out of her mind, despite conversing every once in a while with the bartender as he wiped down the bar. Friday nights were always busy, but without Harvey there they were never interesting. He had left early the night before, just after their dance, kissing her on the cheek and promising to return the next week. "I may show up more than once," he'd smiled, "to surprise you."

She knew he wouldn't, but it was the idea that made her smile down at her reflection on the bar.

"Oh, look at that. The weirdo's back," the tender said under his breath. Christine looked up from her hands, casting a swift glance toward the door. Sure enough, the man from the previous night was back, wearing the same suit and an identical air of constant amusement. "Christ, he's coming this way."

"Just do your job," Christine ordered, a cool edge to her voice. He nodded, twisting the white rag in his large hands. "He won't bother you if you don't bite."

The bartender grimaced, "I almost did more than bite last night. There's something unsettling about him, is all, miss. I don't see why there can't be more than one person working the bar. I can't promise that I'll keep my calm with him for very much longer."

Christine flashed him a warning glare as the stranger sat on the stool directly next to hers despite many of them being open. "Hello, sonny boy," he rasped, "An arsenic and gin. Light on the arsenic."

"Do you have a preference in brand, sir?" the bartender inquired stiffly.

"Does it look like I care?" His expression was sober; his eyes completely devoid of emotion. "Just don't make it the most expensive. Dunno if you can tell by my attire, but I'm not composed solely of money."

The bartender nodded and left the scene quickly, murmuring under his breath words that neither the stranger nor Christine could hear. He turned to her, leaning against the bar, looking her over. "I like this dress better than the pink one. It's less formal, more… enticing," he mused, curling his fingers absentmindedly around the ends of his long, faintly green hair. "Dress up for Harv, did you?"

Christine stared ahead as he spoke to her, her eyes level with the back of the bar, silently contemplating the stickers on the bottles, doing her best to ignore him. She could feel his eyes on her, and the feeling turned her stomach, burned her skin. "Yes, I did."

"Ah," he chuckled, "Like him a lot, do you?"

Clenching her jaw, Christine turned in her seat, looking directly at him. His face was surprisingly warm and inviting for a voice so spine tingling. If not for the heavily applied makeup, he might have been handsome. When next she spoke, her voice trembled, "Yes, I do."

"Double ah."

"What's it to you?" she asked, her brows knitting together. He smirked, but with the sharp upturn of the deep scars on his cheeks, the smirk looked like a full on grin. It was menacing, and she didn't like it.

"Curious," he muttered, standing up from his stool and leaning forward across the bar. It was cool against his stomach; he shut his eyes against the feeling as he slid forward as far as he could. "Hey, you! Where's my gin?"

The bartender turned and did nothing to veil the glare that he shot at him. "It's coming, sir," he said firmly, not moving from in front of the patrons that he was serving.

He settled back onto his stool, lacing his fingers together on the bar in front of him. "You should look into hiring someone that does their job." He nodded his head in the direction of the bartender, "He's not very prompt."

"He's worked at this restaurant for the past ten years," Christine declared flatly. "That must mean he's competent enough."

"Eh, whatever," he muttered, sighing heavily and sucking on his teeth in a bored fashion. "Sooo, what's Dent like? Use his hands a lot, like he does on TV?" When she gave him a questioning look, he shrugged, "Curiosity."

Why was she entertaining this man's questions about Harvey? It was none of his business. "I don't watch his speeches, so I haven't a clue," she lied, draining the rest of the tart, dark wine from her glass. "I also don't know about his hands. We're not _that_ close."

He knew that she was lying, but it would be rude to bring it up. She didn't even know his name. He shouldn't expect her to be completely truthful. "Here you are," the bartender announced as he placed a glass of gin in front of the man. "I'll put that on your tab."

Before he could turn away, Christine interrupted him, "Don't worry about it. He doesn't have a tab. I'll be taking care of his drinks."

The man snorted, pushing his glass back to the bartender, "I'll be having the _expensive_ brand of gin, then."

This made Christine laugh, which nearly shocked him out of his skin. She had not thought a single thing funny before then. Either that or she was damn good at hiding her amusement. He was not the most humorous man in Gotham, but he did try. His success rate, however, was criminally low. Criminally.

"Well, sir," she began, turning to get up from her stool. "It was an interesting conversation, to say the least, but I believe I should retire."

"Already? The party hasn't even begun to begin."

She gave him a tight smile. "Oh, I know, but I'm not in the mood for a party so now's the perfect time for me to leave."

"I'll be here for a while now. I quite like this place, despite the tendency toward snobbery," he chuckled, taking a long drink from his gin and smacking his lips. "I hope that bartender doesn't pick on me with you gone."

"If he does, let me know," Christine laughed, standing up and tucking her hair behind her ear. "You'll be back tomorrow, I assume?"

The man snorted again, nodding, "I intend to make this a habit."

···

Christine's bedroom was five floors up, extending around the side of the building, one of the larger suites in the hotel. She passed her identification over the lock and heard it click open, pushing against the door and letting herself in. She crossed the living room that the front hall spilled into, running her fingers over the soft fur of Astaire, her Persian tom cat as she passed his regular sleeping place on the back of the sofa. He meowed at her, stretching his large paws out in front of him and yawning.

She made her way into her bedroom, picking up her cell phone out of habit from the table next to the door. Instead of it being as she'd left it, there was a single missed call. It was from Harvey. Glancing at the clock, she saw that it was only 8 PM. Now would be the perfect time to call him. Pressing redial, Christine sunk down onto the foot of her bed, slipping her feet from her heels.

"Hello?" His voice wasn't clear, as usual, but sluggish. He'd been sleeping.

"Oh," Christine chuckled, "I'm sorry. I thought you'd still be awake. I can let you go if you want to get back to sleep."

Harvey groaned, "No. No, no, no, that's fine. I just fell asleep at my desk." There was a short silence followed by the rustling of papers. "Thank Christ I didn't drool; these are important documents I fell asleep on." He was endearingly candid after just waking up. She could almost picture what he looked like at that exact moment. His dirty blonde hair rustled, his blue eyes still faintly glazed, his tie askew.

"So, was there any importance to the call? Or did you just want to talk?" she asked, lying back onto the bed and shut her eyes. Outside the wall of floor to ceiling windows, Gotham was bustling. She could hear the traffic below, as well as the people on the street. Her room was not illuminated, but she could see everything. That's what she loved about this city. No matter the hour, it was never complete darkness.

"Honestly, I don't remember," he murmured, "That must mean that I just wanted to talk. With that said… hi."

Christine beamed, giggling, "Hello, Harvey." She ran her fingers along her stomach, massaging the slinky red fabric absently. "I didn't know you had my number. No one has my number."

She could hear the smile in his voice, "You do know who you're talking to, don't you?"

"You're _sneaky_," she teased, "But you'll have to get back to me if you're wondering if that's a good thing or not. I enjoy aggressive men, but cripes."

"There's no need to worry. All I have is your phone number," he grinned, yawning.

Christine sighed, "You know, I think you should come to dinner sometime before Thursday. Tomorrow is Saturday. You can't be terribly busy. And if you are, I don't care. It's the weekend and you deserve rest. Come and see me, at least."

"I think you should come have dinner with me somewhere else entirely tomorrow," Harvey suggested. "Get out of Villiers' and come out with me. I hear they're putting on Don Giovanni at the Opera house, and I may have tickets." He chuckled, fingering the two tickets that sat on his desk. "I may have two very good tickets."

"You _are_ sneaky," she laughed, unable to keep the blush from her cheeks. "I would love to go. Tomorrow night, though? Isn't that a bit early? I don't have anything to wear."

Harvey clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "It doesn't matter what you wear, you know that. I'll be happy with just about anything when it comes to you. I'm sure you could wear a hat and apron from the kitchen and still look absolutely beautiful."

"Oh, Harvey."

"Yes?" he inquired, slipping the tickets back into their envelope, a proud smile on his lips.

"Why on Earth did it take you a year and a half to tell me what you did last night?" Just when he opened his mouth to answer, there was a knock at her front door. "I'll be right back. Someone's at my door." She put the phone down before Harvey could protest and hurried out of her bedroom, through the living room, and to the door. When she opened it, the woman that stood there was unfamiliar, but the man was not.

He stood taller than her, despite his slumped shoulders and downcast eyes. Instead of the impeccably applied makeup that he had been wearing earlier, the white had begun to smear, mixing with the black around his eyes and the red on his mouth. Beneath his nose, there was a trail of blood. He looked up at her, his blue eyes amused despite his wounded appearance.

"There was a fight," the woman said matter-of-factly, ignoring the man at her side completely. "This one got slugged right in the face by Tony."

The bartender had been driven to haul off and punch him in the face. Christine repressed a smile, and the man arched a brow, making his fists into an even tighter ball in front of him. "You told me to tell you if anything happened," he drawled in his low, eerie voice. "And as you can probably tell, things happened."

Christine opened her door wider and ushered the man in, smiling thankfully at the woman before shooing her away. When the door was closed, she turned around to find that he had disappeared. She walked into the living room, her eyes darting nervously around, to find that he was standing behind her sofa, stroking Astaire's white fur with a steady hand.

"What did you do to make him punch you?" she asked. He looked up at her and grinned, shrugging his shoulders. "I've never heard of Tony getting angry, much less punching some fellow in the nose."

"He asked me why I wore this stuff on my face," he said softly, dreamily. "Told him the story about how I got my scars."

Christine stopped in the middle of the living room. "What's your name?"

"They call me Joker. Not entirely sure I know who 'they' are, but they do. What's your cat's name? I think he likes me."

"His name's Astaire, and he likes everyone," she said flatly.

"Ouch."

This made Christine slightly less uncomfortable, and she was able to give a hint of a smile. "Do you want me to show you the bathroom? Your nose is still, uh, bleeding…" He nodded, leaning down and giving the cat a tiny kiss on the top of his head before following Christine in the direction of the bathroom.

She motioned for him to sit down on the toilet seat, and he did so, watching her as she bustled around the room, getting towels out of the cabinet and running the warm water. She tested it a few times before dunking the first hand towel into the warm water. Wringing the excess out, she turned to him, leaning against the counter. "Chin up," she muttered. He adhered to her instructions, tilting his face up to look at her. He sat nearly completely still as she began to wipe at the blood on his nose; completely still save for the bouncing of his knee. That was merely compulsion.

"You know," he whispered, tucking his upper lip beneath his top row of teeth so she could get at the dried blood easier, "some men would consider this foreplay."

For some reason, this did not offend Christine. She merely laughed, pressing harder against his nose in an attempt to clean it of blood. It hurt, but Joker did not hiss in pain like any lesser man would. He chewed on the inside of his mouth, staring up at her. "Do you?"

He chuckled, "My tastes are a bit less subtle."

"Ah, I see," Christine replied, giving him a faint smile. She had wiped the blood clean, but felt that she was not done. His makeup. "Would you mind much if I washed off more than your war wounds?"

"Depends on how far you intend to go, Christine," he giggled, "and how many towels you're willing to dirty."

Christine began to massage his cheek clean with the hand towel, watching as the white makeup began to disappear and gave way to pale pink skin. She continued down, passing it over the side of his mouth, concentrating on getting the red from off of his scar. She had seen facial scarring before, but this was something completely different. There had been no simple healing with this man. She wouldn't have been surprised if he had told her that he hadn't gotten stitches at all, merely healed on his own.

Joker shut his eyes against the feeling of the warm towel on his skin. His breathing slowed, as did the bouncing of his foot. Christine, too, felt her actions grow deliberate. "I would ask you to tell me about yourself, but I have a feeling that you won't be honest with me."

"If I were honest with you about my life, you would think I was lying, so what's the point?" he breathed, his eyes opening as she passed the warm towel over his lips. "Everyone exaggerates when it comes to their life story. For instance," he chuckled, "You're the daughter of a multi-millionaire. You live an exciting, carefree life, and you're hopelessly in love with Harvey Dent."

Christine stopped wiping his face clean, her hand falling from his face, "How is that exaggerating?"

"Your life is _hardly_ exciting!"

"My life is exciting, thank you. I just so happen to be going to the opera tomorrow night. That's very exciting." When he rolled his eyes, so did she, beginning to work on removing the caked makeup from the lines in his forehead. "It's okay. I'm not entirely sure that I want to hear your life story. I may never look at you the same."

Joker reached up and grabbed the towel out of her hand, knowing that his makeup had nearly been entirely removed. "Look at me." She did, her eyes narrowed at his face. "Now tell me that you don't see me in a different light than earlier. Tell me that. I promise you that you can't." She opened her mouth to speak, but he was not done, "I'm no longer the weirdo at the bar. I'm human to you now. You can't pretend I don't exist when you turn your back on me any longer."

Christine felt her blood run cold as he spoke. Each word made her more and more nauseous, but she couldn't express her fear of him. If she did, he would've proven himself correct. "This is nothing," she said softly, "I've seen worse."

"But have you known worse?" he pressed. "Have you honestly known worse?"

"That doesn't matter," Christine hissed, yanking the towel out of his hand and tossing it into the sink. With her back to him, she crossed her arms over her chest. "You can go now."

Joker stood, smoothing his long fingered hands over the thighs of his pants. He stepped behind her, dipping his mouth down near to her ear, as Harvey had done the night before. The voice that she heard was not Harvey's. No, it was low and it rumbled like thunder in the man's throat. "I'll be seeing you."

With that, he left her alone in the bathroom, alone in her apartment. When she heard the door shut and lock behind him, she let out a shuddering breath, bracing herself against the wall. There was a mixture of terror and lust in her veins that she could not understand. Pressing her forehead against the cool wall, she concentrated all of her power on steadying her breathing. One breath in, one breath out, no tears, just a man. Just a man.

Flicking the bathroom light off, Christine made her way back to her bedroom, crumbling down onto the foot of her bed. Her wrist knocked something and she picked it up, examining it. She had forgotten to come back and talk to Harvey; he had hung up a long time ago. Sighing heavily, she placed her phone back on the bed beside her, curling into a ball and breathing in the scent of her comforter.

Tomorrow, she would wake early and call Harvey. She would then get dressed and go to the opera with him, as he had asked and she had agreed. She would not be in the restaurant to greet Joker, to be reminded of that night's happenings. Instead, she would be sitting in the best seat in the house right beside Harvey - comfortable and safe.

Outside of her apartment, Joker slipped his phone out of his back pocket. He pressed speed dial and gave a wicked grin when a familiar voice picked up.

"Opera, tomorrow night; she'll be with Dent. Box seats, no doubt. We'll see how much they enjoy their night at the opera. I'm doing them a favor. It'll be much more exciting this way."


	3. Chapter 3

Early the next morning, before she was able to call him herself, Harvey rung. She woke to find that she hadn't undressed. She had fallen asleep at the foot of her bed, curled up, and now her back ached. Her bedroom was excruciatingly bright, telling her that the hour was late. "Hello?" she answered sleepily.

"You're alive! Thank God!" Harvey laughed. There was a short silence in which he contemplated the tone of her voice, "Were you still sleeping? I'm sorry." He did sound genuinely apologetic.

Christine smiled, turning onto her stomach and stretching in an attempt to ease the pain in her back. "I was, but thank you for waking me up! I was going to call you back last night, but I figured it was too late. I'm sorry for making you wait."

"There's no need to apologize," he said softly. "I do have an idea to spring on you, though. I don't think the opera is a very good idea, considering we'll both be bored to sobs. We could always just stay in. I could cook something, and you could help. Or, if you want, we could get takeout. I just want to see you."

"It really doesn't matter what we do," she snickered, sitting up and glancing out of the window. She couldn't see over the building across the street, but she could tell from the light that beamed down onto the street that the sun must have been high in the sky. "What time is it?"

She heard Harvey begin to shuffle papers again. This time, however, it was in an attempt to find the clock on his desk. "It is," he muttered, narrowing his eyes at the tiny hands, "… noon."

Christine squeaked, a quiet sound in the back of her throat. "Are you serious?"

"Yes," he replied with a swagger, "As a matter of fact, I am."

"Thank God you don't want to go to the opera anymore," she groaned, "I would've never been ready before curtain." She stood from her bed and crossed the room, checking her reflection in the mirror that hung above her chest of drawers. "So, you'll be by to pick me up when exactly?"

Harvey smiled, leaning back in his chair and staring up at the ceiling of his office. "As soon as you're ready," he said, "Just call me back and I'll swing by." He shifted on his seat, curling his fingers around the armrest of his chair. "On second thought, maybe we should say six?"

"Six would be perfect. I should be ready by then," she teased, "Thank you for waking me up! If you hadn't called, I might've slept the day away."

"You're welcome, then." He glanced around the room, taking in the surroundings, reveling in the warm sound of her voice. "I should let you go, I suppose."

Christine couldn't wipe the smile from her lips. "Mhm," she murmured, "I'll see you at six?"

Grinning, Harvey leaned forward against his desk, "Six, indeed. Should I come up to get you, or just wait in the lobby?"

"I'll meet you downstairs. Don't worry; I won't stand you up," she said, smoothing her hand over Astaire's pale cream-colored fur. She hadn't noticed it before, but atop his head was a faint smudge of red. It wasn't her lipstick. Clearing her throat, Christine began to softly wipe it away. "I should go get ready. I'll see you in a grand total of six hours, sir."

"Maybe five?" Harvey asked, a hopeful sound in his voice.

Christine chuckled, "Six. I have to make myself look ravishing for you. You deserve nothing less, especially since this was your idea."

She heard him heave a sigh and smiled to herself, patting Astaire on the head and heading in the direction of the bathroom. "I'll talk to you later," she smiled, "Thank you again for this. Bye!" After he returned the farewell, she flipped her phone closed and placed it on the counter, turning the light on with a haphazard flick of her wrist.

The sink was still dripping and was half full of clouded water. The hand towel that she had used to wipe away Joker's makeup had clogged the drain, making it impossible for the rest of the water to escape. It was covered with blotches of black and red, streaks of white. The room reeked of stale cologne, clearly cheap, but appealing. Taking a deep breath and letting it out in a sigh, she slipped her hand into the water and removed the towel. The sink drank up the dirty water immediately, leaving a swirl of dark red on the porcelain.

She adored Harvey. She adored him with all that she had, but he had never caused such a bodily reaction, such fear and such desire. He had always been complimentary, but never so intense. Her skin crawled just thinking about him. Whether this was good or bad, she could not tell. Perhaps it was both. Perhaps she was both intrigued and reviled by him.

···

"I'm here to pick up Christine."

Harvey Dent looked impeccable, as was expected of him. His dirty blonde hair had been smoothed down. His tie had been tucked snugly inside his suit jacket. His slacks had been pressed with precision. He looked every inch the gentleman as he stood in front of the maitre d', smiling diplomatically as the man fidgeted nervously under his attention.

"Ah, yes, she said that you would be here," the man said with a nervous grin. "I'll call her down. If you would sit at the bar…?"

"Sure," Harvey smiled, "Thank you very much, sir."

When Harvey moved over to the bar, he sat down directly in front of Tony, who gave him a generous grin. "Can I get you anything, Mr. Dent?"

"I'm not sure. Do you have anything strong?"

"The strongest, Mr. Dent."

There was a low chuckle from beside him, and he turned, glancing at the man that was sitting two stools over. He was leaning inelegantly against the bar, a sinister smile on his face. "Watch out, Harv, he's not joking."

Harvey's eyes fell to the small swatch of tissue paper sticking out of the man's nose. "Don't mind him, Mr. Dent. He deserved it," Tony said with a burst of anxious laughter. "Now, what would you like?"

"Drinking already, Harvey?" came a voice from his left, a distinctly feminine voice. He turned again, this time away from the stranger, and nearly gasped with pleasure at the sight of her. Her hair was pulled back away from her face with a silver comb, and she was beaming at him, her hands laced in front of her. "I'd much prefer having dinner with someone at least mildly sober."

He laughed nervously, turning back toward the man to see his reaction to seeing Christine. He was gone. Shooting a questioning look at Tony, the bartender shrugged. Dusting it off as nothing, Harvey stood and went to Christine, holding out his hand to her. "You look… amazing," he murmured, quite lost for words, his eyes roaming slowly from the tip of her head to her toes.

"Why, thank you," Christine said with a nod of thanks. "You don't look half bad yourself."

Harvey grinned, motioning toward the door with a tilt of his head. "I've called in reservations at my favorite restaurant. They expect us in ten or so minutes. You ready to go?"

"Your favorite restaurant?" Christine joked, arching a brow at him.

"Besides this one," he amended, folding his arm and placing her hand in its crook. "I really think that you'll like it. The food is delicious, and the view is perfect, at least."

Christine gave him a wide smile. "Who was that you were talking to?" she asked, "I saw that you were turned toward the man at your side. A fan?"

Harvey shrugged, nodding to the maitre d' as they passed by his station. "I have no clue. He was just… some guy." Some unnerving clown of a fellow in makeup. Holding the front door to Villiers' open for her, she passed quite near to him, her hand touching him softly on his waist. He heaved a nearly silent sigh and followed her down the stairs, to his car. There, he opened the door for her once more and then followed her into the backseat.

"Go ahead," he told the driver, before turning and grasping onto Christine's hand.

···

While utterly predictable, dinner was an enormous success. As he had promised, the food had been delicious, much better than what was served at Villiers' and the view had been pristine. But now the hour was late, and Christine was sure that they had locked up at home. That meant that she'd be stuck calling her father to let her in, or she would allow Harvey to bring her home with him. She opted for the latter option, like any woman with a decent head on her shoulders would have done.

"There's a guest room," he assured her as he unlocked the front door. This was his apartment in town. He had another residence outside of Gotham city limits, but he hardly ever stayed there. It was too large, not enough like home. He preferred close quarters, especially when alone. A large house only made him feel more lonely.

Christine chuckled, her head buzzing from the three glasses of wine at dinner. With his arm around her, she felt as though he was a strong sea captain, holding her steady to keep her from tossing overboard. "I'm sure there is."

When he was finally able to find the right key, he let both of them in. The apartment was cool and smelled faintly of his cologne and smoke. "I didn't know you smoked," Christine murmured, her voice only slightly slurred.

"I don't… usually," Harvey said with a small grimace. He should've sprayed something to mask the smell. "Only when I'm nervous. It's a horrible habit, but I don't abuse it." He turned to her to see that she was leaning against the wall, her head tilted back against it. "Are you okay?"

"Just a bit woozy," she giggled, curling her arm limply around her waist. "Is there somewhere where I can sit down?" She opened her eyes and blinked a few times. "Or lay down?"

Harvey moved quickly over to her, wrapping his arm around her shoulders once more, this time more snugly. "I can show you to the guest room, if you'd like."

Christine nodded, not saying a word, and leaned against him, her cheek buried into his chest.

The guest room was right beside the master bedroom. It was furnished in a simple black and crème, clearly done by someone other than himself. Everything smelled a bit like vanilla. "Here you are," he said quietly, looking down at the top of her head. "You want to go to sleep?"

"Help me out of my dress first," Christine murmured, her eyelids heady.

Harvey cleared his throat, "Excuse me?"

Christine snorted, nudging him with her hand. "I'm wearing underwear, Harvey Dent. You won't see anything." She moved away from him, nearer to the bed, lifting her hair off of her shoulders so he could see how to unzip the gown. He did so slowly, almost painstakingly, his jaw clenched as he watched the black fabric begin to slide down to a pool at her waist, bearing her pale skin to the moonlight that filtered in through the window.

She sighed, stretching her arms high above her head and yawning. "Thank you," she said thoughtlessly before moving to the head of the bed and beginning to unmake it. His eyes widened as he watched her, bending across the queen sized mattress to pull back the comforter and rearrange the pillows. When she was finally happy with her bed, she straightened herself back out, turning toward him. "Goodnight?"

"Goodnight," Harvey said softly, tearing his eyes away from her. But before he was able to reach the outside of the door, he found himself being pulled in her direction. She'd taken to fiddling with the bedside lamp by the time he was standing right beside her, his large hands on her waist, turning her toward him. She blinked up at him, confused, her red lips parted.

He could hear his heart beating in his throat as he bent down, taking her mouth onto his own. He had done such things before - the dinner followed by a sleepover, but he had never been so moved to kiss a woman in his life. It was as if his body was doing the work itself, pushing his tongue to pass against her bottom lip, forcing his hands to crush her against him. All the while, his mind reeled. She's drunk, Dent. She won't remember any of this tomorrow morning.

She went limp in his embrace, falling against him, her arms curled around his neck. As his lips parted from hers and began to trail across her cheek, down her neck, to her shoulder, she murmured his name. "Please," she whispered, "give me a chance to sober up. I'm not drunk enough to not realize that I want to be lucid for whatever you intend to do to me."

Harvey nodded, biting softly on the delicate flesh on the slope of her neck and then kissing it, nuzzling against her. "Okay, but do I have to leave?"

"No," she smiled, slipping out of his arms and getting beneath the covers. He watched her settle back onto the pillows, her dark hair like a halo around her face. "I should expect you to at least wait until I'm asleep."

Sliding out of his jacket, Harvey tossed it across the foot of the bed, removing his shoes and his tie. "You know, if I'd had known this would happen, I'd have invited you into the master bedroom. The bed's bigger," he said with a quick smile. He sat on the edge of the bed, pulling his legs onto it and scooting as close as possible to Christine.

"Now is not the time to get fresh with me," she said sleepily, laying her arm across his stomach. "Goodnight for real this time."

She curled up beside him, her head rested on his chest, and he began to absently stroke her back, his lips pressed against the top of her head. It was not long before her breathing began to slow, each breath becoming steady in sleep. "Goodnight," he sighed, shutting his own eyes as he waited for sleep to come.

···

The next morning Christine awoke to find the bed empty. She groaned into the pillow that her head was rested upon and rubbed the spot where she knew Harvey had slept. "Where are you?" she asked the spot. "Why do you wake up so early?"

"It's pure habit, I assure you," Harvey said from the doorway that he leaned upon, a warm smile on his lips. "I've got you breakfast. I admit to having made it. I'm not entirely sure your opinion of a cooking man. I hope you like it." He brought the tray to her, placing it across her lap. "Eggs and sausage, toast, and orange juice - all of which I hope you are not allergic to."

"And a daisy," Christine reminded with a yawn, motioning toward the single flower. Harvey laughed at this, settling down on the edge of the bed. "Do you have the paper? There should be a review of the show in it. I'm anxious to see what we missed."

Harvey made a face, tossing the rolled up front page onto the bed next to her. It lolled open and she read the headline quickly. 'Opera house fire - a dozen killed,' it read. Her mouth fell open and she looked up at him. "What happened?"

"No one knows," he sighed, "The only sign of what could possibly have happened is a broken gas pipe. Evidently, there was a note mailed to each of the leads with a playing card in it. A King or something."

Christine began to read over the article. Where were the details? Her eyes darted back and forth as she read. And then a single word jumped out at her - Joker. Her hand fell limp against the mattress, and all she could see was his face, half smeared with makeup, half his true self. "It was a Joker card. They were sent a Joker card."


	4. Chapter 4

When Christine arrived at Villiers', she was conducted to a visitor by the maitre d'. He had been given express orders from the visitor, and it was clear by the urgency that this person had been waiting for some time. As they rounded the corner and turned to the tables set around the dance floor, a familiar face stood out to Christine, one that she recognized immediately.

The woman was sitting with pin straight posture, her eyes focused on her hands laced together on her lap. Her hair was dark brown, nearly black, and styled in a fashionable, if a bit asexual, medium-length cut. Her face was finely sculpted, with a strong chin and Roman nose, despite a noticeably heavy body. She was dressed in a crème colored suit that nearly screamed expensive. Glancing in the direction of Christine, a warm smile melted over her features and she stood, revealing that she was head and shoulders above average female height. "Where on Earth have you been? They said you weren't in, that you hadn't been in since last night."

Embracing her, Christine felt her cheeks begin to burn. "I had a date," she sighed, motioning for her to sit down. "There is a story to tell, but do you want the long version or short and sweet?"

"Do you realize who you're talking to, Christine?" she laughed a surprisingly girlish laugh. "Of course I want all of the details."

The woman sitting before Christine was Abigail Morris, the head curator at Gotham's premier history museum and a supremely powerful woman when it came to not only the arts, but any social networking done in the higher echelons of the city. When you were interested in gaining a financial backer for your business, you went to her. When you found yourself down and out, despite your good name, and you were in need of some help, she would find someone interested in giving you a lift. She knew people. She knew far more people than you ever would.

"It was with Harvey," Christine said in a low voice, looking off to her side in an attempt to keep her secret just that.

Abigail's eyes lit up. "Harvey Dent? Are you serious?" It was clear by her tone of voice that the mere thought of her friend being attached to Harvey Dent excited her. She leaned forward, "Now you **have** to tell me all the details. Retaining information would put severe stress on our friendship."

Christine laughed, leaning back against her chair. "He was a complete and total gentleman. I couldn't have expected more. It was a dream." She began to smooth her fingers over the tablecloth. "I might've gotten a little drunk, though, and we might've slept together."

At that, Abigail's eyes went from eager to as wide as saucers. "You what!?" she asked in a hushed, urgent whisper. "You haven't been on a date in a year and a half, and the moment you go on one, you jump down the man's trousers before he can even kiss you goodnight!"

"I did not jump down his pants, thank you," Christine murmured, "I'm quite hurt that you would even think such a thing. We slept together. There was no sex involved."

"No sex involved? I've seen Dent in person, and I can't wrap my mind around such an idea. He's gorgeous."

Christine cleared her throat again, dropping her hands onto her lap. "Well, yes, he is. I can say no to a pretty face, Abby. I don't rely completely on my… well… my senses to make all of my decisions."

Abigail lifted her glass to her lips, taking a short swig of wine before setting it back down on the table. "In other words, you're not a thing like me." Chuckling, she began to look around the room. It was surprisingly full for half past four. "Did you hear about the opera house?" she inquired as if by habit, mentioning the last headline for conversational purposes.

"Actually, Harvey and I were going to go to see Don Giovanni last night. We decided not to that morning," Christine sighed, adjusting herself nervously on her seat. Every time the opera was mentioned, all she could see was his face; that unnerving look in his dark eyes, the look that told her that he wanted everything and was not afraid to get it by any means necessary.

"They still haven't figured out who did it. Evidently, he left some sort of playing card with the leading soprano - a Jack or something," she muttered, running her hand along the thigh of her slacks. "Maybe it was a Joker."

Christine nodded, "It was a Joker."

Shaking her head sadly, Abigail took another drink of her wine. "Some kid that thinks opera is nothing more than a bunch of people warbling in a language that they don't know, probably. That building was almost two hundred years old, you know. Two hundred years of history was gone like that."

"I," Christine began, but stopped herself. She couldn't tell Abigail that she was almost sure she knew who had done it. Abby would have told her to go to the police and tell them about him immediately. Despite not knowing him at all, she felt some distress at the thought of having him behind bars.

"You what?"

"Nothing," Christine said softly, "It's nothing. Have you eaten?"

"I didn't come here to eat," Abigail laughed, "I came here to tell you that I'll be away for the next few weeks. They're sending me to Germany in an attempt to acquire a Delacroix."

Christine grinned, "And they do realize that you failed German in school, don't they? Twice?"

Abigail arched a thick brow. "Of course they don't. However, the man that is holding this pristine work of art hostage is a disenchanted American. I doubt he'll listen to me at first and claim that we Americans hoard art, not appreciate it, but he'll see sense."

"A man would have to be deaf and blind not to see sense when you show it to them, Abby," Christine teased, "You could charm a fish right out of the water."

"I'm good with words, not godlike," she smiled, standing up, "And on that note, I really must go. I have a plane to catch in a few hours, and I've yet to finish packing. It was really nice to see you. You look good! Due to that Dent charm, no doubt."

They hugged again. Very few details had been shared, proving that Abigail had not been any more interested in the date than a complete stranger. What had interested her most was the man's name. Christine watched as Abigail walked off, shooting a subtle smile at the maitre d', who nearly crossed himself in an attempt to open the door before she reached it.

Tony was at the bar again, and it was evident from his expression that he was not too happy. Leaning against it, Christine gave him a sympathetic smile. "What is it? Something wrong?"

The man's lips were pinched into a thin line, and he shook his head. "Nothing that you can help, miss. It's just that… that man's back."

"'That man'?" Christine asked, looking both up and down the bar. "Where is he?"

"Hello, Christine."

The skin of her back crawled as his voice poured over her. She shut her eyes, her cheeks draining of color, and grimaced. "Hello," she muttered, swallowing the lump that had risen in her throat and turning around. He was standing directly behind her, his hands furrowed deep in the pockets of his purple trousers, his shoulders slouched.

"You don't look happy to see me," he remarked, a disappointed inflection to his voice. "I came just to see you. Like yesterday, and the day before that…"

"I have to talk to you," Christine interrupted, grasping him by the arm, "in private."

Joker giggled, beaming a yellowed smile toward Tony, "I think she likes me!"

She pulled him off to the side, ignoring his comment to Tony, yanking him in the direction of the elevator. Pushing the button to call it down, she turned to him, "How could you do something like that?" Joker opened his red mouth to say something, but she cut him short, "And don't say it wasn't you because I know it was." The doors opened, and she pulled him in behind her. "I told you that Harvey and I were going to be at the opera last night."

"Did you?" he asked, a contemplative expression falling over his features. "I don't remember you saying anything about he opera." His eyes narrowed in on her face, his neck bent so that he hovered at the same height as her. "I don't like the opera very much."

"You burned it. You killed a dozen people, at least! I know it was you!"

Joker frowned, "Lady, do you have any idea what you're accusing me of? It takes a lot of gall to tell someone they're a mass murderer."

"If it wasn't you, who was it?" Christine asked, staring up at him with a defiant flame in her eyes.

"I don't know every criminal in Gotham. Maybe you should ask your friend." The last word was curled off of his tongue with a threatening intonation that caused goosebumps to rise on her arms. He was talking about Abigail. "Maybe you should, uh, pick a floor," he said after a while, giving a sweeping gesture in the direction of the buttons.

Rolling her eyes, Christine pushed the gilded number five. "She has nothing to do with this. How do you even know her? You're not the sort that she usually associates with."

"No need to associate with people to know who they are. Her horse is so high that she's infamous with us lower citizens."

"That's not the point!" she nearly yelled, frustration getting to her. "You knew Harvey and I would be at the opera, and you did that. I know you did. The leading soprano had a Joker card in her -"

Joker lifted an index finger to stop Christine's speech, "Maybe she likes solitaire?"

"Don't interrupt me!"

He sighed, backing up so that he was leaning against the wall. The elevator had stopped rising and opened with a ding. He stared out into the hallway; she did the same. "Are we going to get off?"

"No," she spat, pressing the button to close the door and then pressing the emergency stop. "Tell me why you did it."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he said slowly, "I told you already that I'm innocent. Innocent as a lamb. I was busy last night anyway. You see, my suit had a hole and I knew that I had to sew it up before coming to see you…"

Christine shut her eyes and make a quiet frustrated sound at the back of her throat. "Stop lying to me, Joker. Joker - you see? That's what you call yourself. It must be some sort of alias. Do you even have a real name?"

"It's not important," he snapped, "You're wearing on my patience. I said that it wasn't my fault. Why don't you believe me?"

"Because you haven't given me any reason not to."

Joker laughed. This time, it wasn't a harmless giggle. It was a mirthless sound, harsh and void of any emotion but annoyance. "If all of the world relied on that logic, we wouldn't have very many friends, would we?"

"Why can't you focus on what I'm trying to say? You keep going off on tangents, and it's distracting me! I can't concentrate! Just… just shut up and let me speak. Please."

If she had known how dangerous he was, she would not have said that. If she had known that beneath his jacket, he was strapped with knives, at least a dozen of them, probably more, she would not have been so forceful, so insistent upon blaming him for a crime. It was her innocence that had grasped his attention and kept him from boasting.

She didn't know he was a bad man. She didn't know what he had done or what he intended to do in the future. She wasn't even scared of him, not in the way that most women were. She knew nothing about his records, his past. If he only knew how to persuade her that this fire was not his fault, though it was, he would be able to clear his name once more. He'd again be Joker, that guy at the bar, a bit strange, a bit touched in the head, but nothing to be afraid of. It had been an age since a woman did not cringe when standing only a few feet away from him.

The silence that fell over those in the elevator sparked with intensity. His dark eyes were on hers, combing over every feature, every inch of skin. She could hardly inhale due to the way he was looking at her, like a hungry creature eyeing his dinner. He inched forward, his eyelids heavy, but stopped short, thinking better of it. "Say your piece."

"I told you," she breathed, averting her eyes, "I told you that Harvey and I would be at the opera last night. I don't know what would move you to do such a thing or how, but I couldn't help feeling that it was you."

"Why would I want to do that? Do you have a motive? If you don't have a motive, the sentence is doomed, easily proven false." He nodded at his own statement, sure that he was correct. Running a hand through his unkempt hair, he turned on the heel of his purple leather shoes, pacing across the elevator. "I really hope there's no one downstairs that needs to get…" he tilted his head toward the ceiling, "upstairs."

Christine sighed, slumping against the wall of the elevator. "Just tell me the truth," she groaned, lifting her hand to her head. She felt a headache coming on, perhaps due to his nearly overwhelming cologne. Maybe it was that, but maybe it was the feeling at the pit of her stomach, the one that had wanted him to kiss her, wanted it more than anything she'd ever felt before. "Please. Tell me you had something to do with it."

He turned and looked directly at her, "I had nothing to do with it."

"Stop lying to me!" Her heart clenched in her chest and she launched herself forward, gripping onto the lapels of his jacket. "I know you had something to do with it!"

At the feeling of her against him, he lurched backwards, pushing her away from him with surprising strength. "Don't… touch me," he warned, "I don't like that. Scream at me, threaten me, but don't fucking touch me."

"What?" she gasped, rubbing at her arm where he had grasped her.

"I can't handle it when you touch me. I can't… I," he shuddered, passing his shaking hand over his face, "I've been doing good tonight. I just can't have you touch me. Not anymore. Not after -" His words began to run together, and she couldn't understand them. He said something about self-control, something about violence, something about an itch. "I have to go. I have to leave. I can't stay here. Get me out." He moved quickly to press the first floor button, nearly missing it and pressing two instead.

Christine watched him with wide eyes as he did this, shocking into silence. "I didn't say you could go… I'm not finished talking to you."

It was the firmness in her voice that caused him to twirl around and glare at her. "What did you say? You're not done talking to me? I'm done talking to you." He grasped the handrail as the elevator began its descent, leaning forward into her personal space. She leaned back, fearful. "I did do it, you know. I'm quite upset that it was such a success, being that Harv wasn't one of the bodies."

The elevator fell to a stop and Joker grinned, a tight expression that only sent her farther back away from him. "Now, if you ever want to apologize for your _boyfriend _ruining my plans, I'll be here. Not at the bar."

Christine was shaking as he turned to leave, pulling his blazer even tighter around himself. "How will you know if I want to apologize? Why would I even do that?"

He stopped walking. The elevator doors began to shut, but he stopped them with a sweep of his arm. Over his shoulder, he could see that she had began moving toward him. "Because I'm not the kind of man that you should hold a grudge against."

Slipping his hand out of the door, they shut immediately, leaving Christine standing alone in the elevator, her nose inches from the cool steel.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Thank you so much for your reviews and hits! It means so much to me that you guys are reading. :) This story has begun to mean a whole lot to me, despite it starting off as an idea for a oneshot! Hahah. I'd also like to point out that you may see more of Abigail Morris elsewhere, in another story that I intend to begin after I finish this one. Or, at least, when I get farther into it.

Again, thank you for reading! Each review means so, so much to me!

* * *

By the time Christine was able to reach the front door of the restaurant, a storm had rolled into Gotham. The summer heat caused the rain to evaporate on the pavement, filling the air with an unbearable steam. Even the raindrops burned as they fell onto the skin of her arms and shoulders. The sky had turned a despicable shade of gray. Storm clouds were highlighted with blue and purple, bulbous and heavy with rain. Every few moments, there was a roll of thunder and a crash of lightening. Despite the maitre d's attempts to give her an umbrella, Christine had run out onto the sidewalk, ignoring his protestations and beginning to summon a cab.

It took no time for her hair to become plastered to her head, and the cabbie shot her a pitiful look when she climbed into the backseat. "Where to, miss?" he asked.

Christine glanced out of the window, her arms curled around herself. Despite the insufferable heat, she found herself shivering. She gave him the address to the only place where she felt she could be save, praying to whatever deity that would listen that he had stayed home and not left for the office.

Luckily enough, there was a light on in what she assumed was his office window when the cab pulled up in front of his apartment. She dug the fare out of her bra, excusing herself to the cabbie with a sad smile. "I left my purse at home. You know how you always forget things when you're in a rush." The man nodded, taking the money, and keeping the change when she prompted him to do so.

Slipping out of the door, she glancing toward the sky, shutting her eyes against the nearly burning rain that drizzled down onto her cheeks. Wiping at them, Christine sighed, hopping up the stairs that led to his front door as quickly as she could manage. She waited there, her arms still wrapped tightly around her midsection. From inside the house, she heard approaching footsteps, shuffling footsteps. When he opened the door, he nearly gasped at the sight of her.

"My God, what's wrong? Come in," Harvey ordered, his voice surprisingly firm. Shutting the door behind her, he ran his hand across the width of her back. "What on Earth were you doing out there in this weather?"

"I have to talk to you," she said in a faint whisper, looking up at him.

Her expression was nothing short of pitiable, and he sensed immediately that something had happened since they'd last seen each other. She seemed lost, her eyes wide and bewildered. She wrung her hands together as he escorted her into the living room, letting her sit on the sofa despite being soaked to the skin. "I'll get you a towel," he murmured, mostly to himself, disappearing into the bathroom. He reappeared with a large white towel, rushing over to her and wrapping it around her shoulders. "There. Is that better?" She nodded, glancing up at him with a small, thankful smile. "Now, what is this about?" he inquired, moving around the side of the sofa to sit next to her.

"I know who started the fire," Christine said in an uncertain voice, fiddling with the edge of the towel. She couldn't even bear to look him in the face. She knew that all she'd be able to see is Joker, staring back at her, grinning.

"What fire?" Harvey said, having forgotten mostly about that morning's news. He'd since been nearly thrown off of his feet by paperwork, and his brain was full of jumbled dates and personal information. Suddenly, though, he recalled the opera. "Oh," he sighed, "that fire. How do you know the person? Are you sure?"

Christine shook her head, "I know it was him. All of the signs point to it." She turned her face to him, her brow creased with reluctance. "He calls himself Joker, like the cards they found at the scene, the card that was mailed to the soprano. You've seen him and so have I. I've actually talked to him before." She was about to tell Harvey of the night that Tony had punched the man, but she stopped. How would Harvey feel about her inviting a stranger into her bedroom? Instead, she bit her tongue. "At the bar, he visit's the restaurant a lot. I told him about us going."

"And do you have any idea why he burned it?" Harvey asked, having since slipped into his game face. His lips were pulled into a thin line as he stared into her eyes, making sure that there were no telltale signs of lying. "Or does he just do that sort of thing for kicks?"

"Jealousy, maybe," she said slowly, running her hands up and down her arms. "I dunno why anyone would do something like that. I'd have to get into his frame of mind and that's somewhere I never, ever want to go." She shuddered visibly at the thought, and Harvey slid his arm protectively around her, placing a kiss on the top of her head.

He rubbed the towel on her arm in an attempt to warm her. "When you're dry, we'll go and talk to Commissioner Gordon. He's a friend. You can give up this guy's name or just give us a description to keep an eye out."

"You don't understand," Christine urged through clenched teeth. "If I attempt to turn him in, he'll come after me. I just know it. I don't even know his name. All I have is an alias, and that's nothing to go on. I'll get laughed at." She leaned into Harvey's embrace, resting her head on his shoulder. "I'm afraid of him, Harvey. He's dangerous."

"No, I do understand, Christine," he said in a level, tender tone of voice. "I've put away some of the most dangerous men in Gotham. When I get news that they've posted bail or gotten out after their sentence is served, I live with the fear that they may come for me. You have to be strong. This is just one man." He brushed her hair away from her forehead with the pad of his thumb, pressing his lips to her temple and hugging her against him. "Plus, you have me, and I do cut a rather intimidating figure."

This made Christine smile a genuine smile, and Harvey felt a part of him calm down, as if seeing her so agitated had caused something in him to rile up. "Thank you so much for this, Harvey," she sighed, "Three days into this and I'm already causing you trouble."

He snorted in disagreement, grinning. "You? Cause me trouble? I am here to help you. If I wasn't, that would mean I was a horrible boyfriend."

"I'll talk to Commissioner Gordon if you want me to," Christine said finally, "I can give you a pretty accurate description of him, but I don't know his name or anything about his past. I just know that there's something incredibly wrong about him, something… misplaced and awkward."

"You tell all of this to Gordon when we see him, alright? That's all you can do. Tonight, if you don't feel safe alone, I can spend the night with you in your apartment. I can make sure that all of the doors are secured, make sure no one can get in. Would you like that? Would that make you feel at least a little safer?"

Christine nodded. "I would like it best if you stayed over. It would help me sleep."

Harvey cradled her cheek in the palm of his hand and kissed her lightly on the side of her mouth. "It would help me sleep better, too."

It was not an hour later that they arrived at the Gotham City Police Department. Despite not having told anyone that they were heading in that direction, there was a string of bored reporters standing at the front doors of the station. At the sight of Dent's driver, they were whipped into an uproar, pressing against themselves to get a picture of or a word with the couple.

"How are you enjoying the weather, Mr. Dent?"

"Is that Christine Villiers of Villiers' restaurant? Are you two together?"

"What are your thoughts on the fire that caused a dozen deaths in the area?"

Harvey protected Christine from many of the eager men and women, rushing them into the building where they would be safe. It was only a taste of the future, she realized. At Harvey's side, she would always be in the blinding spotlight of Gotham. Before they had even announced a mutual attraction, she had thought of how it would be by his side, always photographed and asked questions. Before that day, she'd thought of it in a positive light. Now, that light was difficult to differentiate from the negative.

They moved through the metal detectors swiftly and were conducted to the nearest elevator, the one that was closest to Gordon's office. When they had reached the proper floor, Harvey began to move down a long hallway, his hand holding tightly onto hers, leading her in a direction that he knew all too well. Just before they reached the doorway, he stopped. There was a voice not belonging to Gordon's coming out of it.

"I'll be sure to check in every so often," came a distinctly female voice, throaty and full with a hint of girlishness. "Just so you don't worry." The doorknob turned and it cracked open just enough for Harvey to see the Commissioner standing up at his desk. There was a hint of a smile beneath his dark moustache. "Goodbye, sir. You have a good day."

Gordon nodded, leaning against his desk and shuffling through a few papers, "I'm sure I will. Have a safe flight, Miss Morris."

Abigail's imposing frame filled the doorway not a moment later, and her expression faded from shocked to composed after seeing that Christine stood right there with none other than Harvey Dent. "Afternoon, Christine," she smiled at her friend, turning her grin to the District Attorney, "and you, Mr. Dent."

Christine watched Harvey's face, noting that he was both perplexed and amused at having caught a woman leaving the Commissioner's office after flirting with him quite loudly. Everyone knew that he was happily married with children. "Good afternoon, Miss…?"

A long-fingered hand shot out in Harvey's direction. He took it, impressed at the firmness of her handshake. "Abigail Morris," she said, retaining the wide smile without a single falter. "Head curator at the Gotham Museum of Art. I helped host a benefit for Commissioner Gordon not very long after his promotion. We met there, though I'm sure you wouldn't remember."

"I'm surprised I forgot," Harvey said with a laugh, "You seem like the sort of person one wouldn't easily forget. Hell, you must be taller than I am in the right shoes."

"Or, dare I say it, the wrong ones," she laughed, patting Christine absently on the shoulder, "I'm off to the airport. It was really nice to see you again before I leave. You must call me while I'm away… to keep up on things." She gave her a small kiss on the cheek. "It was nice to meet you again, Mr. Dent."

Harvey grinned, "It's Harvey, Miss Morris."

"Then, by all means, it's Abigail." With that, she turned around and beamed a secretive smile in the direction of the Commissioner, moving around Christine and toward the elevator.

Harvey opened the door to Gordon's office for Christine, following in behind her and shutting the door. Gordon was now sitting at his desk, leaning against the back of his chair, a faint smile on his thin lips. "What can I help you with, Harvey?"

"Miss Villiers has come to give you some info on the fire from last night." He turned and gave Christine a reassuring pat on the back. "She believes that she knows who did it."

At this, Gordon's dark eyes lit up and he leaned forward, pressing his forearms against the desk. "What is it that you have to tell me, Miss Villiers? Do you have a name for us? Any information would be a great help."

Christine stared down at her lap for a moment, running up and down the length of her skirt, examining each inch of black fabric. After taking a deep breath, she looked up, her eyes locking with Commissioner Gordon's. "I don't know his name. He told me that he doesn't have one. He says that people call him Joker, which is what led me to believe that it was him."

Gordon nodded. "Ms. D'Andrea, the leading soprano, was sent a playing card that morning. It was a Joker. We hadn't assumed that it was a calling card."

"Tell him everything that you know, Christine. He's here to help."

She took another deep breath, letting it out in a sigh. "Just a few hours ago, we were in an elevator together. He told me that he'd done it. He confessed right there to me. Finding him is what will prove difficult, since he has the ability to just… disappear." Her eyes began to fill with tears. "He's dangerous, Commissioner. I know he is, especially after what he did to those people. I'm afraid that if I'm ever left alone, he'll come for me."

As she confessed her fears, the volume of her voice rose, as well as the passion with which she spoke. Harvey reached over, taking her hand in his, and Gordon glanced at him with a knowing expression.

"We can protect you from any harm, miss," Gordon reassured her in the warm voice of a father. "All you need do is tell us everything you know - his appearance, his manner of speech, every detail you can remember."

And so the rest of the afternoon and the beginning of the night was spent in the Commissioner's office. Christine told him everything she knew, except for what happened on the night that she let him into her hotel room. That would only cause trouble and the information she had received then had not even been anything of substance.

When she had told him all that she remembered and they had gone over every procedure known to man, Gordon told Harvey that it was time to take her home. Christine smiled a grateful smile over her shoulder as they left the office, and Gordon nodded to her, sitting back down in his chair and going over the notes that he had taken over the course of the evening. He'd known that it was the Joker all along. The card had been the tip off. However, Christine knew things that he did not and playing naïve was the only way to get the details he might've missed.

Back at Villiers', Christine let Harvey into her apartment. Astaire was near the door, waiting for her, mewling a pathetic sound. He was quite put off at having been left to fend for himself an entire day. "This is Astaire," Christine laughed, lifting the petulant kitty into her arms. Harvey patted it on its head, smoothing his fingers over its soft fur. "He likes you!" Nuzzling her nose into the fur at the back of his neck, she smiled. "Do you want to check everything now? I have to shower."

Harvey nodded, crossing the living room to check the doors that led out onto the balcony. What he found was a surprisingly safe apartment. There were no places that a person could get in undetected, without picking a lock or breaking a window. Even so, the locks were heavy and would be difficult to turn. This made him feel safe, mainly because he felt that Christine did not have to worry. He sat down on the couch, smiling down at Astaire when he jumped onto the seat next to him.

When Christine finished with her shower, she fed Astaire and found the Harvey had drifted off in a light sleep, his head tilted back against the couch. She nudged him, smiling. "Would you like to come to bed?" she whispered, running her fingers through his hair. He yawned, smiled sleepily, and nodded.

Just like the previous night, nothing happened between them besides some light cuddling. Neither of them minded much, especially since he knew that she couldn't feel up to any more than that due to recent events. She wished that she could, but, in truth, what stopped her was the image of the man, sitting lower than she, his makeup washed clean from his face. The black gone from around his eyes made them less intense. Without the red at his lips, the jagged scars nearly faded into his skin. He almost looked normal.

The next morning, she awoke to find that Harvey was still asleep beside her. She gave him a morning kiss on the cheek before sliding out of bed and padding into the living room. She smoothed the fur on Astaire's back as she passed the couch, but something caught her attention. She saw it out of the corner of her eye - a flash of red.

She turned to Astaire and felt her knees almost buckle beneath her.

Between his ears was a familiar red smudge.

He had gotten in.


	6. Chapter 6

Christine didn't tell Harvey about what she'd found. She hated lying to him, but she knew that it was crucial. He couldn't know about Joker getting into her apartment. He would have her move out and, despite her fear of him, she could not bear knowing that she had willingly given him up to the police. As she sat beside her bathtub, rubbing shampoo into Astaire's fur, she could not take her mind off of what she had done. She'd gone to the police. She'd given him away. The police were looking for him now, actively, if they hadn't been before. It was her fault.

Astaire mewed crossly, staring up at her with wide blue eyes. "I know you don't like baths," she murmured, leaning against the cool porcelain of the bath.

The doorknob twisted and the door opened a crack. Harvey peeked in. "Is this a morning ritual that I'm disturbing?" he asked with a grin. No matter how much she hated herself for lying to him, his smile made her believe that he would forgive her of anything, even that. It was self-preservation, after all, was it not?

"Oh, no," Christine said, patting Astaire on the head. "He got into something while we were asleep. He _hates_ baths, if you couldn't tell." They both looked toward the cat, who stared back at them. It was obvious that he was not having the greatest of times. "Would you like something for breakfast? I could fix eggs. You did it for me the other day; it's only right that I do the same."

Harvey sighed, leaning against the doorframe, "I'm afraid I have to head out early. Something needs me at the office." He paused. "I hope to God it's important or they'll have Hell to pay for causing me to miss breakfast."

Nodding, Christine turned back to Astaire. "I'll see you later, I suppose."

"Oh, yes, you will, especially since you're spending the night at my apartment. I don't trust this place yet." He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, pressing his weight on the door, "I'm going to have Gordon's men check it out this afternoon. I want you at my place by midday. I don't feel safe having you here."

She massaged the bubbles into Astaire's fur, biting softly on her lip. "I feel safe here, though. I mean, I'll spend the night with you if that's what you think I should do, but I don't think I'm in danger here."

"Well, I do," Harvey chuckled, an air of finality to his words. He moved into the bathroom, crossing to the bathtub and bending down to give her a quick kiss on her mouth. There was a faint curl of a smile at his lips as he pulled away. "I'll see you very, very soon. No exceptions."

Christine gave a tight grin. "No exceptions."

He hated leaving her alone in the apartment, but he had no choice. He couldn't pull her away while she was in the middle of giving a bath to her cat. She would be safe during the day. The Joker must have known that Gordon was involved in some way by then. He wouldn't dare bother her if that meant causing more suspicion on his side of the matter.

Pulling on his jacket, Harvey smoothed over its lapels and buttoned its buttons, casting one glance toward the bathroom door before leaving Christine's apartment. He took the elevator, sliding into it right before it closed and thanking the person that had stepped in before him for holding it.

"Harvey Dent?" the man asked in a deep voice. He turned to the speaker, his lips swiftly molding into a grin at the sight of Christine's father. "I thought that was you," he said with a laugh. He adjusted the strap of the black bag that was slung on his shoulder.

"Yes, sir," he said in a deceptively cheerful voice. "What's in the bag, if you don't mind me asking?"

Adrien Villiers looked down. "This? This is nothing." He smirked, patting the bag. "You're heading to the first floor, I assume?"

Harvey nodded. There was something suspicious about the bag and Adrien's swift subject change, but Harvey did not dwell on the subject. Instead, he began to worry if Adrien would put two and two together, remembering that his daughter lived on the fifth floor. The owner of the restaurant was viciously protective of his little girl, and Harvey had not yet thought of a way to tell him about their relationship.

"You betcha," he replied, holding his hands behind his back and standing with his posture as straight as he could manage. They did not speak for the entirety of the ride except for a mumbled farewell as they left each other's company. Harvey didn't mind, but it was clear that Adrien was unsure about his silence, wary.

Given the length of his strides, Harvey was at the front door of the restaurant before he could even push himself back into consciousness, tear his thoughts away from Adrien Villiers and the safety of his daughter. He pushed through the front doors, descending the stairs quickly and crossing the sidewalk to his car. His driver had been waiting for him for just over an hour, having been called as he was getting dressed.

"Gotham Police Department," Harvey ordered, fishing his cell phone out of the pocket of his jacket and examining its black screen. He should turn it on and call Gordon to warn him about the visit, but there was something keeping him from it, something keeping his thumb from pressing the little silver power button.

The ride to the police department wasn't a long one, but he felt it drag out before him, the roads extending for forever in the summer heat. "I'll call you when our meeting is over," he murmured to the driver before stepping out of the car. As had come to be expected, he was greeted by a crowd of reporters. They asked him questions about Christine, about the fire, about his previously undiscovered passion for opera. Clearly someone had gotten out the information that he'd purchased tickets.

Gordon was at the front desk this morning, bracing himself against the countertop, conversing in hushed tones with the police officer sitting behind it. The man lowered his eyes from the Commissioner's to Harvey's and did not look away, causing Gordon to turn around and get a look at who was standing behind him for himself. "Ah, Harvey, I didn't remember you telling me that you were going to visit…?"

"That's because I didn't call you and tell you that I was coming," Harvey said with a dimpled grin, "Figured it was best to catch you unawares."

Gordon shook his head, leaving the desk and moving over to the district attorney. "What can I do for you, Harvey? I have to be in my office soon. Villiers called in and said that he wanted to talk to me about something." He said this with a hint of a laugh in his voice. It was obvious that Gordon had played it precisely how he'd wanted to play it. Adrien Villiers was going to be part of the plan.

"Ah," Harvey laughed. He cleared his throat, suddenly sober. "Do you think I could sit in on this 'meeting' of yours? I have a lot to say, and I know more than you do about his daughter. I could be the middle ground."

"Who says I need middle ground?" Gordon asked, arching a brow and patting Harvey on the back. "I'll let you sit in, but only if you promise to not say a word about it to Christine." He walked them both over to the elevator, pressing the call button and turning to Dent, grabbing his arms and looking into his face, suddenly dead serious. "And don't let your feelings get mixed up in all of this. Leave those out here. Business is business, and there's no room for anything else, not with this crazy bastard on the loose."

Harvey nodded, stepping into the elevator and watching as Gordon followed him in, choosing the proper floor. "I know what's what, Commissioner. You _are_ speaking to Gotham City's DA, you know."

When they finally reached Gordon's office, the call waiting light on his phone was flashing. He hurried over to it, motioning for Harvey to sit down on one of the two chairs before the desk, and pressed the button that transferred the call to speakerphone. "Yeah?"

"Mr. Villiers here to see you, sir," a male disembodied voice replied. "Should I send him up?"

"What else, Roberts?" Gordon shook his head, a smirk twisted at the corner of his lips, before answering in a blank tone, "Send him up." He lifted the phone from its base and then set it back down, ending the call.

A few minutes later, after a long, comfortable silence between the two of them, the door to Gordon's office was opened. Adrien Villiers stood there, his black bag hanging on his side, his lips pressed into a thin line. Harvey stood from his chair, and Gordon looked up from the papers on his desk, nodding his head politely to the man. "I… didn't expect to see Dent here," Adrien said, looking directly at the man despite having directed his comment at Gordon. "Should I go?"

"No, of course not," Gordon said, sitting down in his own chair and offering the other one to the tall businessman. His eyes fell to the bag that Adrien carried at his side. "What do you have there?"

"I thought that these would be of service to you. They're the discs from the surveillance cameras that picked up what happened between my daughter and… him. There's one from the elevator and one from outside of her apartment." He placed the bag on the desk, glancing at Harvey before turning his attention away from the man and focusing on the matter at hand. "There were a few from the bar, but nothing really happened in them besides conversation, and I do not have my customers conversations taped."

Gordon leaned forward, pulling open the bag and removing the surveillance discs, examining them. "Even though that could make or break a very important case?" He looked at Adrien over the disc's case. "Even though this could very well mean your daughter's safety?"

"Well, I can't very well go back and change it now. What's done is done. It's policy." It was clear that Gordon's statement had stepped on one of Adrien's nerves, smashing it into the ground. When he was not speaking, he merely sat there, his jaw clenched, eyes unwavering from the commissioner. "Can we just watch the tapes?"

Gordon stood from his chair and crossed the room, behind Adrien and Harvey. He pushed a few buttons, flipped a few switches, and stood back. The television flipped on, fizzling and popping at first, then clearing out to show a pristine picture, despite it being in black and white. It was in an elevator.

There was a man and a woman standing far apart from each other, one dressed in the familiar uniform of Villiers' restaurant. The other was merely standing there, his posture poor, his hands jammed into the pockets of his slacks. The moment Harvey saw him, he felt something stir in the pit of his stomach, something that tasted vaguely like rage at the back of his throat. When the elevator doors opened, they left the camera's sight.

It jumped to another angle, this one high on the ceiling, staring straight at the front door of Christine's apartment. She opened it, and the burning in Harvey's stomach was eased slightly. She looked shocked at first, but then that expression faded into mild surprise and recognition. She said something; and Harvey noticed something. Her expression was not surprise. It was the one she wore when she saw him, the face that soon turned into a smile. He shut his eyes for a moment, biting back the lump that rose in the center of his chest.

What followed gave Harvey Dent a blow. She invited him into her apartment. She let the low life in, smiling and waving to the waitress as she did. He couldn't imagine what had gone on behind closed doors, what he had done to her. Or, Harvey realized with a grimace, what she had done to him. He could hardly see for the blinding hate that blazed at the back of his eyes, that overtook every single one of his senses. No one said a word as Gordon replaced that disc with the second.

After the same static they had encountered with the first, the picture faded into a shot of the elevator again. Two people stood in it, same as the last time, but now neither of them wore a uniform. One was the Joker, his wide shoulders slouched noticeably, but his being held higher, more alert. The other was Christine Villiers. Her eyes were glued onto the man and visibly heavy lidded, another expression of hers that Harvey found familiar.

Harvey's fingers drew in against his palms, digging into the flesh, grinding against it. His teeth ached from the pressure applied to them by his jaw. Part of him wished he had not stayed, had not seen these videos. Part of him wished that he was still naïve to all of this. But another part of him was glad that Gordon had invited him in. Otherwise, he would have allowed her to continue touching him, continue kissing him, continue making him believe that he was the only man in the world.

He watched as the Joker turned and began moving closer to her as they conversed back and forth. He wanted to hear what they were saying, but he was afraid he wouldn't be able to bear it. Time seemed to slow as the man's face, round and covered with makeup, lowered to her level as if he was going to kiss her. He pulled away at the last moment, but not before Christine moved visibly in his direction, pulled to him as if by magnets. Harvey swallowed the bile that rose into his mouth, singing the back of his tongue. He stood, moving swiftly forward and shutting off the television.

"I've seen enough," he spat, turning to Gordon, "I don't know about you, but that did absolutely nothing to help me figure out who that bastard is. Yeah, we know what he looks like, but Christine told us that herself and she wouldn't lie."

"Did she tell you about her letting him into her apartment?" Adrien interrupted, arching a thick, graying brow.

Harvey glared at him. "What?"

"If she can keep something like that from you, she has the ability to lie to us all. We need all the sure information we can get. This hearsay shit isn't going to cut it. I love my daughter, but it's obvious that she's been effected by this guy."

"Anything we can find is of help in this investigation," Gordon reminded him, standing up from his place leaning against his desk and curling an arm around Harvey. He sat him down again and then extracted the disc, handing it to Adrien. "We need you to keep an eye on your daughter. This man is highly dangerous and will stop at absolutely nothing. The fire at the Voxhall opera was not his first crime. We've been tracking him for months now. This is just the first time that he's actually calmed down. One situation in a month. It's obvious that he has some sort of… concentration."

Adrien scowled. "My daughter."

Gordon looked up at him from his desk, his hands pressed firmly against it and a sad expression on his face. "Your daughter."

Back at Villiers', Christine had finished drying Astaire's fur. The red smudge had been more difficult to get off this time, and he'd gotten away from her while she was blow-drying, skittering across the bathroom floor in an attempt to escape. Finally, with his fur perfectly smoothed and clean, she was able to let him out and shower herself. She knew that after she finished this, she would pack her things and make for Harvey's apartment, as she had been instructed. She didn't mind spending most of her time there. It's when she was with him that she felt safe and secure, cherished. It was one of the greatest feelings in the world.

Running her fingers through her damp hair, she stared into the mirror. Sleep hadn't been easy for the past two nights, and there were two small pockets of purplish flesh beneath her eyes. Smoothing her hands over them, she sighed, sliding her palms over her face. She couldn't get the image of his face out of her mind. If she ever saw him again, she didn't know how she would react. Their last meeting hadn't ended pleasantly. In fact, there was a part of her that never wanted to see him again. The logical side of her personality, however, knew that that was not even an option.

Heaving another sigh, she exited the bathroom and made her way into the living room. Sunlight filled the room with a warm, comforting glow that made a smile creep onto her lips. That smile was dimmed after she saw another flash of red in the corner of her eye. It was in her bedroom. Evading the couch, she ran into her room, nearly skidding to a halt when she realized what it was. There was a dress lying face up on her bed.

It was made of a soft fabric that was clingy to the touch. Despite the beauty of the color, there was not much of it being that the dress itself was strapless and short, something that Christine usually would not have been caught dead wearing. Attached to its top was a note. Scrawled on the paper was an invitation of sorts, more of an order than an request.

_I like red. I'll give you My Alibi at 7 PM._

Christine did not notice until after she had set the dress back down onto the bed that she had been holding her breath. Her heart raced in her throat and she felt faint. He had gotten into the apartment again while she had been bathing Astaire. Not only had he broken in, but he had left her this along with a note that meant he was expecting her. How could a man expect her to drop everything, all of her plans, and attend to theirs?

Just when she was about to rip the note in two, she realized something. Harvey had done the exact same thing with her. It was all about control with him. If he felt that he had the upper hand, he was the happiest he could be. The second things got unpredictable, he grew antsy. He couldn't stand not knowing what was in the future, especially if he was unable to shape it.

If there was one thing she would not allow, it would be more control in her life. She would go to Joker. She would wear his dress. What she would now do was take orders from him, conform to what he insisted she conform to. The same went for Harvey.

Looking down at his note, she smiled. My Alibi was a bar in the center of the city. It was notorious for its customers, but she didn't care, not if she was to be the Joker's date for the night. No one would bother her if he'd already posted his claim. At least, that's what she would have hoped.

"Fine," she said to herself, running her fingers over the smooth fabric, "I'll come. I'll play your little game."


	7. Chapter 7

The second Christine stepped through the door and into My Alibi, every single eye in the place seemed to turn and look at her. Such attention caused her skin to burn, every inch of it flushing, undetectable in the dim lighting of the bar. The place was packed to the gills, filled with men and women, all outcasts, all equally dangerous-looking. Clutching her small bag against her, careful to keep it close, she moved over to the bar. It was nothing like the one at Villiers'. This one had not been wiped down in some time, and there was a spattering of alcohol here and there, a bowl of uneaten peanuts, a man slumped against the cool glass.

Stepping up and onto a stool, she watched as the bartender moved over to her, a grin on his haggard features. "Is there something I could get for you, doll?" he asked, his words slurred by both an intercity accent and a stamp that he had been dipping into his own stores.

She nodded. "Could I have glass of wine, please?"

The bartender snorted, gesturing behind him to the alcohol that sat on the bar's shelves. "Does it look like we have wine, love? I could get you a glass of water, and you could pretend, if you want." Laughing to himself, he began to massage the glass before her with a grimy towel. "Anything else you'd like?"

Christine felt a hand on her back; the skin was warm. "Get the lady a martini and stop bothering her," came a deep voice from behind her. "And stop smiling like that. You look like an ass." It did not belong to the Joker. It was cool and thickly accented with Italian.

She turned and looked toward the speaker. He was not much in the way of height, but he made up for it in sheer presence. Charm seemed to ooze out of his pores. She identified his face immediately. She'd seen him on the television countless times before, usually getting out of a limousine or into a patrol car. When she spoke, her voice was surprisingly strong. It was as if her vocal cords had not realized exactly who had just ordered her a drink. "Salvatore Maroni?"

"The one and only," he said with a quick smile, pulling himself up onto the bar next to her. "Hope you don't mind about the drink. Was a martini okay? You seem like a classy lady and figured it would be a good choice." He drummed the fingers of his right hand on the bar as he watched her, his quick, candid smile transformed into a slow, deceptively lazy one. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

"Christine Villiers," she said, watching the bartender go about his business. The man did not move with a speck of grace, clunking around behind the bar like it was his kitchen, not a business.

Salvatore sighed, his left hand still pressed firmly against her back. "I thought I knew that beautiful face of yours. Villiers was a good friend of mine once." He laughed heartily. "He probably hasn't told you about that."

Christine turned to him and gave him a tight smile. "No, he hasn't. I'm not sure if I'm terribly interested in my father's unsavory past." As the words left her lips, she instantly regretted them. She knew damn well what Maroni was capable of doing to her. He was one of Gotham's toughest gangsters. Up close, however, without the accompaniment of his fellow thugs, he did not seem so intimidating. His hair was as dark as carbon, save for his temples, which had grayed. There were lines all over his face, most of them on his forehead, between his eyebrows. You could tell by the look in his black eyes that he was tired.

"Unsavory?" Sal shook his head. "I wouldn't call it unsavory. Your father was a good man, untouchable almost. I remember when you were born. You were quite a handful, if I remember correctly, drove your ma nuts." At the mention of her mother, Christine cringed inwardly, and Sal felt her quiver beneath his hand. He passed his tongue over his lips, his expression morphing into one of concern. "You okay, sweetheart? Didn't mean to hurt your feelings or nothin'."

She nodded. "I'm fine. You know what happened to my mother, don't you?" She watched as Sal responded with a nod. "Then you know that it's not in your best interest, nor mine, to mention her." Not only that, but I know it was you that influenced it, Christine thought to herself, biting down on her tongue to keep from saying it aloud.

The bartender placed the martini in front of her and she grasped it immediately, taking a long sip from the elegantly shaped glass. He looked up at Sal with a hopeful look in his eyes. "Just put it on my tab," Sal said brusquely, waving him off. He set his hand back down onto the bar, his heavy ring clinking against the glass. "So, what brought you here, Christine? To my chagrin, I have to admit that we do not see such elegant young women in these parts."

"I'm terribly sorry for you," Christine replied with heavy sarcasm, turning to her drink in an attempt to ignore the feeling of his hand on her back. Ever since he had mentioned her mother, all she could think about was her. Where was she now? Was she still in Arkham? Had they let her loose? She had been given strict instructions to never contact her daughter or ex-husband ever again. She could have been anywhere. Christine slouched slightly over her drink, staring into the cool, clear liquid.

From behind Sal, there was a soft chuckle. It sounded like the ticking of a clock. "I don't think the lay-dee likes you touching her very much," a familiar voice said in a matter-of-fact tone. Her eyes jerked from the drink to Sal, who had paled noticeably. It was Joker. He had cleaned up since she last saw him, and the suit that he wore looked new - or, at least, less worn than the one she'd seen him in before.

Sal turned around and looked up at the man, his eyes visibly wider. "Who are you to know that?" he asked, though he was clearly wary about speaking up.

Christine bit back a mocking smile. "I _am_ here to see him, Sal."

"Ya don't say," Sal said slowly, turning back and looking directly into her face. "You shouldn't allow yourself to wait for men, sweetheart. We should be waiting for you." He grimaced, standing up from the stool and taking her hand in his. Lifting it up to his mouth, he gave it a small kiss. "I'll see you around, doll." He glared at Joker. "I hope this freak treats you right."

Joker nodded, climbing up onto the stool and giving Sal a wide, yellowed grin. "Of course I will. I'm not a gangster," he said, a hint of obviousness in his tone. "Like you." He lifted his arm and patted Sal awkwardly on the back. "Have a good night, Sally boy."

When Sal had left the scene, going back to his table near the back, Joker waved over the bartender. "I want what she's having," he laughed, leaning farther across the bar and closer to him, "and just put it on his tab, okay?"

Christine chuckled, sipping on her drink. It was strong and it was dry, but drinks were always delicious when someone else was paying for it. "Why did you leave me that note?" she asked, turning toward him on the stool. He looked at her as if scandalized by the question, but he suddenly looked incredibly pleased. He said nothing. He just stared. "What?"

"You wore the dress," he giggled, reaching out and touching the fabric that gathered at her hips, jerking his fingers back at the feeling of her beneath it, as if touching her had burned him. "I really like red."

"Yeah, I got that." She sighed heavily, draining the rest of her drink and setting it down on the bar. She waved off the bartender when he went to get her another. "You didn't answer my question."

Joker looked into the drink that was rested before him. "Weeeell," he said slowly, "I have to admit that I didn't really have a reason." He confessed with a regretful shrug. "I did, maybe, but I don't really remember what it was."

She could tell by his eyes that he was lying. He had a reason. He just wasn't ready to tell her. "So," she began, crossing her arms on the bar top, "You get me out of my house and into the middle of Gotham to a bar complete with gangsters and prostitutes, and you've forgotten why you did that?" She rolled her eyes, turning away from him and looking down at her hands.

"There are prostitutes here?" he asked, turning and looking over his shoulder, scoping out the room.

"J, stop that," Christine hissed, looking over her shoulder, as well. "Tell me why you brought me here, or I'll leave."

"What did you just call me?" Joker's face lit up, and he'd forgotten all about looking around the room for other women. Christine looked confused. "You called me 'J.' What is that? A nickname?" She hadn't caught herself before she'd called him that. Her cheeks flushed as he laughed from his gut, picking up his drink and draining half of it. When he next spoke, he was completely expressionless. His voice was deadpan. "You don't want to leave. If you leave, you'll come back."

Christine felt her face drain of all color. The blush was gone. "I won't," she said firmly, looking at him, her brows knitted above her nose. "I won't come back. You won't leave me alone, though, I know you won't. You haven't yet." She shook her head, running her hand absently through her hair, bringing it down to her chin and resting against it. She tried her hardest to keep her eyes off of him. Every time she saw his face, her stomach burned.

Joker leaned over, close to her, and smiled slightly. "But, Christine, do you expect any less from me? Honestly?" he inquired, his breath warm on her bare shoulder, sending goosebumps across her skin.

She shut her eyes against him, suddenly unable to keep her head from spinning. Every time he spoke, something gripped her. It was a combination of fear, revulsion, and desire, and it caused her to nearly lose control of her senses. She took a deep breath. When she let it out, her chest shuddered. "Please, stop that. Stop doing that. Stop asking me questions if you already know the answer."

"If that was the case," he chuckled, "I would never have anything to ask you. I know all of your answers." He moved back away from her, sitting straight on his stool save for the slump in his shoulders. "That wouldn't be a very interesting conversation."

"And this is?" Christine cried, given up on holding her fear captive, pushing it down every time it rose in her throat. "This is not interesting at all. Perhaps to you, but to me? No. No, no, no, this is torture." She sighed again in an attempt to steady her breathing. "But, you probably like that, too, don't you?"

Joker scooted his stool closer to hers and put his arm around her shoulders despite his unease at touching her. He did so haltingly, afraid that she would pull away. She did at first, a jerked, half-hearted attempt. It was as if half of her body did not want it, while the other half wished to move into his embrace. "No, of course not. At least, not to you. You're special."

It was the way that he spoke the word that worried Christine. With any other man, it would have been the greatest compliment. Spoken from his lips, she could only worry that it meant the worst. When she did not reply, Joker patted her shoulder awkwardly, withdrawing his arm and moving back away from her. "You want to leave, I suppose. There's not much here." He looked over his shoulder to see Sal staring at him, his eyes narrowed threateningly.

"Sure, but I don't have a ride," she murmured, mostly to herself. He began to hurriedly check the pockets inside and out of his purple overcoat. She watched him as his searching became more rushed, sliding his hand into the green blazer beneath the larger coat and checking there. Finally, he found what he was looking for, removing a small silver key and placing it on the bar.

"I have a car." He paused, glancing out of the window at the front door. "At least, I did when I came in. I'm not sure if it's still there."

Christine stood from her stool and gave him a small smile. "I'm sure you remember where I live," she said, looking down at him. He snorted and stood, as well, hurrying toward the door, not looking back to see if she was following. When they were finally outside, the sun had dipped down below the skyline, draining the sky of all color and brightness. The car was still parked outside of the bar, but it did not look as if it was going to last very long. The paint had been scratched, and one of the tires seemed to be almost completely out of air.

"This is it, I assume," Christine muttered with a sigh. Joker twisted the key in the driver's side door, waiting to hear the hollow thunk of a lock unlocked. When it did, he turned to her, nodding.

He opened the door and clambered in, leaning over to manually unlock the passenger side door. She hurried over to the other side, opening the door and getting in. While she had not thought of him once since arriving at the bar, she couldn't help but realize that Harvey would have opened the door for her, not expected her to do it for herself. She clenched her jaw as she sat down on the punctured leather seat, pulling in her legs after her and shutting the door.

"You should probably buckle your seatbelt," Joker said, and she noticed a smile curled at his reddened lips. The smile caused her heart to race, and she began to search for the seatbelt, crossing it over herself and locking it as quickly as she was able.

Christine clutched her purse against her as he pulled out of the parking space, the car lifting up over the curb and slamming down against the pavement. "This isn't the way to my apartment," she told him, turning around and glancing behind her. Villiers' was South. They were not heading South. "Joker, this isn't the way to my apartment."

He leaned over, tearing his eyes away from the road. "You don't wanna call me 'J' again? I liked the sound of that." Christine's hand shot out and gripped the blistered dashboard as he swerved to miss an oncoming car. "I like it when you call me that. You should call me that all of the time."

"I'll call you that once you get me home… preferably in one piece!" she shouted, glaring at him and clinging tighter onto her purse. "And look at the road! Jesus Christ!"

Joker grimaced, his gloves squeaking as he gripped the steering wheel. "You never meant to call me that. It was a mistake. You make a lot of those," he said, a certain disconcerting gravity to his voice. "Like telling Harvey about me. That was a mistake." He narrowed his eyes before him as he sped up, causing the car in front of him to do so as well, blaring their break lights at him in an attempt to get him to slow down. "Going to the Commissioner about me. That was a mistake, too, a big one."

Christine's heart fell as he continued speaking. "How… how did you know that?" she asked, looking at him. He was staring straight ahead, his eyes on the road, his mouth surprisingly straight. Her eyes began to water as she felt her blood run cold. What was he going to do to her? He wasn't bringing her home. He knew about her going to Harvey and then Gordon. What else did he know?

"I told you," he replied through gritted teeth. "I told you earlier that I know all of the answers to your questions. 'Who do I go to?' Harvey Dent, District Attorney. 'Who does he go to?' Commissioner James Gordon. 'How does he know all of this?'" He leaned forward, his chin nearly touching the wheel, and sped up, slipping into the oncoming lane in order to pass the car in front of him. The oncoming car slammed on its breaks, and he swerved smoothly into his own lane.

"Please," Christine pleaded, dropping her purse into her lap and reaching out to touch his arm. He jerked it away from her before pushing her roughly back against the passenger's side door. She yelped, but he did not seem phased. "What are you going to do?" She wiped at her eyes with her palms, her breaths coming out in painful bursts. "Don't kill me. Please, don't kill me."

Joker looked her in the eyes. "Kill you?" He let out a rip of possessed laughter, tipping his head back so that it was rested against the seat. Turning back to the road, he continued laughing, his chuckles and coughs coming out in short wheezes. With his free hand, he reached over, taking her face between his fingers. She cringed against the pain of his fingers digging into her skin. "You're too damn pretty to be a corpse. I should've known not to get involved with someone as pretty as you."

Christine gasped, pulling away from him and pressing herself closer against the door. "Why are you doing this? Is there anything that I can do? I want this to stop." Tears fell freely down her cheeks now, so quickly that she felt it was futile to wipe them away. She felt so helpless, so powerless against this situation.

"You want what to stop, Christine? Why stop what you started yourself?" he spat, yanking his hand back to the steering wheel. "You went to Harvey. You went to Gordon. You want me to get caught. Well, that's not going to happen. I won't… let that… happen."

"I don't want you to get caught!" she shrieked, "I didn't know what to do! I panicked!" She shuddered, cupping her hands around her face and leaning down against the dashboard. Maybe this wasn't happening. Maybe she was still waiting at the bar, and this was all part of her imagination. Or maybe she was at Harvey's apartment, asleep in his arms, and she was dreaming this. She sat there, each breath painful, her eyes now dry.

Joker pulled into an empty parking lot, stopping the car and removing the key. "You panicked?" he looked down at her, something besides anger began to eat at him. He watched her for a moment, her shoulders quivering with either sobs or a bodily form of fear that he had not seen in her before. If it was the latter, he did not like that; he did not want her to be that afraid of him. "You panicked, so you went to the police. They've been looking for me for the past year and a half. Do you honestly think that some girl's testimony will help them in catching me?"

Christine's hand fell from her face and went to her seatbelt buckle, unlocking it and sliding it from around her chest. She sat up slowly, wiping at her face with her shaking fingers. "I-I don't know," she whimpered, glancing at him, nervously at first. She didn't know what to expect. She feared that he would still be angry. "I didn't know what I was doing. I don't know. I don't know anything anymore. Nothing's for certain."

"Nothing's ever been for certain, Christine," Joker said in a low voice, "for anybody. Everything's left up to luck."

"I don't believe that," she replied slowly, turning on the leather seat so that she was facing him. "Luck has nothing to do with it. We change everything ourselves." She found it difficult to speak despite her not crying anymore. It was the fear that still gripped her, kept her from expressing everything that she wanted to say. She wanted to tell him how her decisions had been molded by someone else for all of her life. Nothing she had ever done had been by chance. Her entire childhood had been mapped from the very beginning. It was her father's attempt to keep her from growing into a woman like her mother.

"Prove it to me, then," Joker said, challenging her. His eyes flashed as he turned to her on the seat, sitting as she did. "Show me that you can go against what you have already planned, show me that you're not Harvey Dent's puppet. Show me that you don't care what Gotham thinks of you. Leave nothing up to chance. Pull your own damn strings."

Christine bit at her lip. She did not know what he meant. She had an idea, but she had been serious when she told him that she did not understand anything anymore, that nothing was certain to her. Leaning forward, Christine ran her fingers through his hair, ignoring the slight greasiness of it, pulling herself into a kneeling position. She could not even feel her body anymore. He had told her to pull her own strings, but she suddenly felt that she was not doing that at all, that he was the one playing puppeteer.

His mouth was on hers in an instant, engulfing her in a fire that she'd never felt before. He was manic as he pushed her back against the passenger's seat door, his hands clutching her shoulders away from him, but his tongue darting out, curling around her lips, pulling her closer. She slipped her arms around his neck, lifting herself closer to him, pressing her chest against his. He seemed torn between desire and aversion, as if he wanted nothing more than to get her away from him and to claim her as his own.

She would have whispered his name right then, had she known it. There was an honesty that she wished to share with him, a proclamation of her feelings, but she could not if she did not know his name. Her entire body churned in confusion. There was hate there, burning. There was also fear and disgust. But there was also something softer, something that was trying to shine brighter than the others. Pity.

He found it difficult to breathe with her so close, so compliant. He was not used to such a reaction from a woman, unless she was being paid. Shutting his eyes, he forced himself against her, grinding his hips against hers. He wanted what he could not have. That was always how the game was played, especially when it came to attraction. Nothing was different this time. At least, that's what he told himself as he pulled away from her, moving quickly back to his seat and clutching his hands to the steering wheel. He would bring her home now. That was the smartest move. He had planted the seed of doubt in her mind, a seed that would cause a revolution in her brain's synapses, in her heart. His job was done. It was over. All he need do now is wait. But, how could he?

He put the key back into the ignition and listened carefully as the engine turned over, belching and groaning to a start. His eyes yearned to watch her buckle her seatbelt again, to fix her dress, to smooth her hair. He wanted to devour her with his eyes. He wanted to see her do everything._ Look at the road,_ he thought to himself, _look at the road and don't get distracted. That's all she is - a distraction. Hopefully, I won't need her much longer. Better get rid of her sooner than later._ He did not agree with himself completely. He couldn't.

···

There were no lights on in Harvey's apartment, he noticed as he turned the key in the lock. Maybe Christine was asleep. After such a day the day before, he would have been tired, as well. He pocketed his keys as the door inched open, placing his briefcase on the table near the front door and removing his jacket, hanging it on the tall iron coat rack beside him. "Christine?" he called into the house, knocking the front door shut with his foot and locking it. "Christine, are you here?"

Nothing had changed since he'd left that morning. It still smelled as it had. It still looked as it had. It still felt as it had. Moving into the living room, he poked his head into the guest bedroom. She wasn't there. He rushed to the master bedroom. She wasn't there either. She hadn't come. She was still at her apartment. Either that, or something had happened. Harvey reached for his home phone, dialing the number of her cell phone, a deep frown forming at his lips when her voicemail picked up.

"Christine," he began, rubbing the wrinkled flesh of his forehead. "Why aren't you here? I told you that it was necessary that you come." He paused and sighed inwardly. "I know where you are. God, I'm such an idiot. You're with him, aren't you? Where else would you be? I thought I could trust you with your own safety, but it's clear to me now that I can't. If you get this before I see you, I want to apologize. Bye."

With that, he hung up, placing the phone into the base and then lifting it again, dialing another familiar number. The man answered immediately. "Yeah, Gordon? Christine's not here. She's probably with him." Harvey leaned against the sofa, curling his arm around his waist. "I was wondering if there's any way you could get her into custody. She's not safe. We have to be able to watch over her or he'll hurt her. I know he will." There was a short silence as Gordon answered him, and Harvey nodded, "Thank you, Commissioner. I'll meet you at her apartment in ten."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** Thank you all so, so much for the reviews again! They mean the world to me. They're so very encouraging. Answering a question posed to me in them, Joker's main concern with touching Christine was the fact that he knows he has trouble controlling himself around her. So, yes, the problem is the intimacy of the gesture. But, as you can see from what happened in the car, he's found ways to get over that, haha!

Thank you so much for reading - all of you! I hope to get many more reviews in the future, being that I enjoy reading them and knowing what my readers think. It's all very fun, and that's precisely what this is for! Fun! Thank you again!

Also, is it just me or is angry!Harvey a lot more fun than calm, cool, collected!Harvey? Hmm.

* * *

In all of her life, Christine had never imagined that she would be arrested, particularly not while she rested on her own couch in her own apartment, minding her own business. The first familiar face she saw was Gordon's, his thick brunette brows knitted, ordering his man to grab her and take her down to the patrol car. "What are you doing?" she asked Gordon as the man went to her side, lifting her off of the couch by her arm. "What is this? Where is he taking me?"

"Down to the station," Gordon muttered, distracted by the small leaf of paper on the counter. It was the note Joker had pinned to the dress for Christine that told her where to meet him. What would have been proper evidence in any other case soon became merely a note to give to Harvey. He already knew that the Joker left no fingerprints. It was as if he had none at all. He turned to his partner, "Take her down. I'll have a quick look around and be down after you."

Christine squirmed in the man's tight grip as he began to lead her past Gordon. "I've done nothing wrong!" she screeched, attempting to grasp him by the arm. That only forced the man to hold both of her arms behind her back. "I have done nothing that warrants an arrest!"

Gordon's blue eyes were worried, though his demeanor spoke in volumes otherwise. "No, you haven't." He pocketed the note, motioning toward the police officer. "Loosen your grip, man; she's not a criminal. Don't make a scene down in the restaurant, either. It would work out the best for all of us if you just behaved yourself like a lady. Now, I won't snoop. I'm just having a look around to see how he might've gotten in."

At that, the man tugged Christine out of the door, shutting it behind himself. Gordon sighed inwardly, looking around the large minimalist apartment. Lights were everywhere - lights and windows. There were dozens of them. No wonder Joker had been able to get in so easily. He moved over to a wall that was empty save for a collage of pictures. There was a photo of Christine with her father; one of Christine as a baby, held by her mother; one of Christine and Abigail as teenagers, their arms wrapped around each other and smiling. He had never seen such an honest smile on either of them, and he couldn't help but feel a small grin twist at the corner of his lips.

Not ten minutes later, after having found many different ways that he could've gotten in, Gordon left her apartment and made his way down to the patrol car. Christine was sitting in it, staring straight forward, her mouth curled downwards in a frown. Gordon climbed into the passenger's seat and told the man to drive. He turned around, his arm folding over the back of the seat. "This is for your safety only, Christine. This is not procedure by any means, but I'm doing this for Harvey."

At the mention of his name, Christine's eyes widened and jerked to Gordon's. "What? Is he behind this? Did he tell you to bring me to the station and lock me up?" There was a feral growl in her voice that had been pulled forth by her disgust at the arrest. "Do you listen to _everything_ he orders you to do, Commissioner?"

Gordon cringed visibly at the comment, glancing away from her and looking down the road. "No, I don't. I do, however, act on my own in the best way I can possibly hope to help the constant fight against Gotham City's criminals." He turned back to her, raising an eyebrow. "Is that okay with you, miss?"

Christine crossed her arms over her chest and looked away from him, tired of conversation. She couldn't believe that Harvey had done this. She understood that he was attempted to keep her caged, but by physical force? Part of her wished that he had just asked, being that she would've done so if he expressed interest. The other half would have obviously rebelled against the idea of being kept, but that half is easily smothered by common sense.

When they arrived at the police station, Gordon got out first, running around the back of the car and opening the back door for Christine. After having received word that Harvey Dent was currently waiting in the building and the commissioner had gone, in a patrol car, in the direction of Villiers', the place was swarmed with reporters, all anxious to get a word or a picture of Christine. They were obliged as she took a step out of the car, heel clicking unevenly on the pavement, sliding off of the leather seat in the same revealing red dress that she had been seen downtown wearing that same afternoon.

They were like sharks in a feeding frenzy at the sight of her. Flashes went off every other moment, filling the air with light and heat, and there were shouts from every direction, urging her to say a word for the nightly news. She hid her eyes, shielded by Gordon's arm, and ran as quickly as she could toward the building. Before she reached it, the door opened and out stepped Harvey, his face skewed with concern. He went to grab her from Gordon, offering more support, but she jerked herself out of his embrace, moving with a quite determined step toward the building.

Harvey shot a look to Gordon, who shrugged. "She knows it was my idea, doesn't she?" he asked, though he already knew the answer. Slipping through the closing door, he took off after her, chasing her down and wrapping his arms tightly around her. The reporters at the glass doors whooped in pleasure, having seen Christine turn to him and slap him directly in his face before storming off.

Rubbing at his cheek, Harvey grimaced. "Christine, please, let me explain!"

Christine stood at the elevator, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. "I don't want your explanations, Harvey. I know enough of your motives to understand anything you may say." She glared at him as he stepped next to her. "You could've just called me."

"I told you to go to my apartment," he said firmly, reaching out to pat her on the back. She moved away from him, stepping into the elevator. "You didn't listen. You're not safe with him, Christine. He's only going to put you in danger. I don't know what I'd do if you were killed and I did nothing to prevent that from happening."

"Killed? Are you serious?" she scoffed, pressing the button for Gordon's floor before the commissioner even reached the elevator. At the mention of death, all she could hear was his voice and that laugh. 'Kill you?' echoed at the back of her brain. "I'm safer with him than I am with someone that's willing to have me arrested on a whim. Thank you, but I would much prefer to stay at my own apartment."

Harvey shook his head, "You aren't safe with him. You can't let yourself believe that. He's a murdering psychopath, Christine. He's not all there. You've spoken with him. You can't tell me that you don't realize this."

Christine leaned against the cool side of the elevator, pressing the back of her head against it. "He's not crazy, Harvey. He's just… different."

"Yeah," Harvey jeered, "Crazy."

"Don't say that," she warned, thanking God silently that the elevator had reached the floor. She suddenly couldn't stand being so close to him. He was smothering her. As she walked, she turned back and watched him chase after her. "He's nothing like you assume he is. He's not crazy. You've never been so wrong about a person."

Harvey heaved a sigh as she went into Commissioner Gordon's office and slammed the door. The Joker had gotten to her. Adrien was right. He could no longer trust Christine to tell the truth or to even be herself. Pressing his forehead against the office door, Harvey slammed his fist onto it. "Christine! Open up this door!"

"It's not locked!" she shouted from within the office. There was an alien aspect to her tone, something mocking that had never been there before, something he remembered hearing in the voice of the Joker. When he opened the door, he saw that she was sitting on a chair in front of Gordon's desk. "I don't want your excuses, Harvey. Tell me why you did it. Tell me why you don't trust me to live on my own."

From behind them, Gordon cleared his throat. "Before you answer that question, I'd like you to see this, Harvey." He handed Harvey the folded note. "I found his on her counter. Now we know where she was, where he met her. I could do some looking around down there, if you think that would be helpful."

Harvey unfolded the paper and read it. As he did so, he felt his blood begin to boil in his veins. Before he was even finished, he crumpled it in his fist, slamming the balled paper onto Gordon's desk. "So, you had time to go out for dinner? While I was here with your father in an attempt to prevent you from being seduced by this… this criminal, you were out having drinks with the bastard?"

"I didn't have a drink with him," she stated matter-of-factly, glaring up at him. "I had a drink with Salvatore Maroni, a martini. He's a very nice man, you know, very complimentary. J wasn't there long enough to have much of a drink with me."

Harvey turned to Gordon, who instantly knew what he was thinking. "Maroni should still be there, then," he concluded, turning in the direction of the door. "I'll go see if I can get our friend Sal to speak. You stay here with the girl. I'll be back."

When the room fell into silence, Harvey moved behind Gordon's desk and sat in his chair, narrowing his piercing eyes at Christine. "Would you like to explain how you happened upon this nickname, Christine? Was it your idea? Sounds like it might have been." His top lip curled in a sneer. "I had no idea you were that close."

"Well, we are," Christine replied with equal vehemence. "Jealous?"

Once more, Harvey slammed his fist onto Gordon's desk. "I am not jealous of a madman, Christine! How could I be? He's just a petty criminal!"

"I thought he was a murdering psychopath, Harv?" she asked, turning away from him and fidgeting in the chair, running her fingers along the short hem of her dress. "Quite above your typical petty criminal, I'd say. Right along the prestige of, say, a District Attorney."

Suddenly, Harvey felt sick to his stomach. What had he done to her? She had always been such a sweet girl, and now she was sitting before him, protecting a criminal with the intensity that one reserves for someone that they love. Harvey's lips fell open in shock. Was that it? Had he entrapped her? Had Christine just become another of his pawns? There was no way that he could feel the same about her that she undoubtedly felt for him. Harvey sincerely doubted that someone so base could even love.

A feeling of helplessness caused his heart rate to slow, his blood to cool. "Christine," he murmured, all rage gone from his voice. "Christine, please. Tell me what happened. I have to know."

"You don't," she challenged despite his change in manner. "You don't want to know what happened, Harvey. You'll just get angry, and then I'd have to deal with calming you down. There's nothing attractive about that."

Harvey stood, moving to the chair beside her and reaching out to grab her hands. At first, she wrenched them away, but he quickly overpowered her, grasping them tightly. "You're right. I don't want to know what happened between you two. I don't want to know what was said or what was done. I just don't want you to hate me for what I've done." He twisted her wrists so that he was able to grab both of them with a single hand, lifting the other to push her hair away from her face and stroke her cheek. "All of this, I've done to keep you safe, you know? None of this was done with bad intentions, not on my part."

She looked up from her lap and into his eyes. Nothing had changed about Harvey Dent despite her sudden, irrepressible hate when it came to his actions. He remained the beautiful, charming man that she had grown to adore. Now, as he passed the soft pad of his thumb over her brow, she couldn't help but be reminded of how she felt about him. "I'm so sorry, Harvey," she whispered, her voice quivering as her eyes filled with tears. "I can't help myself. I'm not strong enough."

He let her hands go and embraced her, kissing the top of her head. She sobbed into his shirt, a similar feeling of hopelessness rattling her bones as it had with him. "That's why I'm here, Christine," he reassured her, "I can help you resist him if you let me. I can be all the strength that you need." There was a beautifully concealed lie in his words, one that she never would've noticed. Harvey was not as strong as he put forth. Every mention of the Joker reduced him to a simple-minded man, only interested in revenge, in death, in the Joker's death.

By midnight, Gordon had returned. Sal had confessed to seeing the Joker with Christine. When the topic of the arrest was not him or his men, the gangster was oddly loose lipped. He had given Gordon an address that he assumed the Joker used for a headquarters. After driving by the place, Gordon saw that it was no more than an empty warehouse, used for nothing more than storing trash. He returned to the police station, conducting Christine to a single person holding cell not far below his office, one for non-hostile prisoners. Harvey promised to stay in the room, allowing Gordon to go home to his wife and children.

The night was not an easy one. Christine found that she couldn't sleep in the cold cell, being that it was composed almost entirely of metal, save for the mattress on her bed. Harvey found it difficult to stay awake on the outside, even with the assistance of strong, black coffee.

Thus, the morning came slowly. When Gordon arrived, fresh and ready to begin a new day, he told Harvey that he should go home and get some rest. Harvey refused. "I have to stay with her," he said sleepily, his blue eyes glazed with fatigue. "When she sleeps, I sleep."

The day was an uneventful one. They passed their hours talking as Gordon read over reports, most of them from the past about the Joker. He did his research when covering a criminal with a history. His glasses poised on the edge of his nose, he leaned back in one of the uncomfortable chairs that sat around the holding cell. Harvey sat near Christine, having moved his chair over closer to her, and they rested against each other, their hands laced together through the metal bars.

Christine dozed, and so did Harvey. He felt comfortable knowing that she was safe. She felt comfortable knowing that he had done all of this for his honest affection toward her. Finally, around the hour of five, the door to the holding cell opened. "So," came a loud, bracing voice. "What on Earth is going on here? Why was I called?"

Having been taking a sip of coffee from his mug, Gordon choked on the lukewarm liquid at the sound of the familiar voice, turning around in his chair to see Abigail Morris standing there. She beamed down at him, chuckling, "It's good to see you again so soon, Commissioner." She glanced at Christine. "Now, what is this about, Christine Villiers?" Christine grinned at her friend's enthusiasm, despite her tiredness. "Talk to me. All of you. Not at the same time, though, because my brain's dying from jetlag."

She sat in the chair beside Gordon, crossing one long leg over the other. "Well? Start talking! I want to know why I was called away from work. Harvey, you first, since you made the call."

They each told their story. Each tale was different, except in the main aspects. Each spoke about the Joker in a different light. Gordon spoke of him with regret, probably at not having arrested him yet. Harvey spoke of him with noticeably anger. Christine spoke of him with an edge of sympathy to her words. Finally, when they had all given their piece, Abigail crossed her arms over her chest. "And what do I have to do with this?" she asked, quite confused. She had been looking forward to purchasing a beautiful Victorian era painting from a collector in Berlin. They had called her away just before the auction.

Gordon adjusted his weight on his seat. "Well, we were hoping that you would watch Christine for us, so we can get her out of this cell."

Harvey nodded. "You have a nice house just outside of city limits, don't you? I contacted the museum, and they said that my assumptions were correct." There was a glimmer of hope in his eyes, hope that said, 'If she doesn't want to stay with me, maybe she'll want to stay with you.'

"Let me get this straight," Abigail sighed, bobbing her heeled foot up and down. "You both want me to babysit Christine." She paused. "You do realize that she's a grown woman, don't you? Can't she take care of herself?"

"They don't trust me with my own wellbeing," Christine interrupted.

Abigail shook her head sadly. "Men," she said with a teasing grin aimed at Gordon. "They can never trust a woman with her own brain. Fine, fine. I'll watch her. She's my friend. I want the best for her, even if that means forced house arrest under my jurisdiction." She glanced at Harvey. "You do realize that there will be no hanky-panky under my roof, should you visit."

Harvey chuckled, relieved that she'd agreed to watch over her. "What you don't know, Abigail…"

She snorted, shaking her head. "Oh, I'd know, Dent. I'd know."

While all of this wore on, Christine began to allow her mind to wander. Where was J? Why hadn't he acted yet? Wouldn't it be logical to attempt to set her free, if he had feelings for her? But, she wasn't even sure that he did. It was clear to her now that she had had the wool pulled over her eyes. He had lied to her. No, he had not even lied. She had only assumed.

Why hadn't he come for her? She asked herself that over and over as she sat there, holding hand with Harvey through her cell, her cheek pressed against the cool bar.

What she didn't realize was that he was biding his time. He knew that they expected him to act. This was his attempt at throwing them for a loop. If he did not attempt to save her, they would think he had abandoned her, thinking the whole plan useless. He had his plan. He was waiting for the perfect time to put it into motion.

Grinning down at a seated Salvatore Maroni, he patted the gangster absently on his head. "Thank you," he cooed, "Your help will be rewarded… handsomely."

Sal arched a brow, unhappy with the physical contact but not about to object. "No problem, son. Anything to get back at that bastard Adrien Villiers."

"Revenge," Joker sighed, turning away from Sal and moving out of the bar, his pace slow, leisurely. Before the door to the bar swung closed behind him, Joker looked up at the inky sky. He still felt the burn of her kiss on his mouth. Licking his lips, he grinned. "I love it."


	9. Chapter 9

Abigail's house on the outside of Gotham's city limits was of a modest size with humble architecture. It was the inside that took one's breath away. One expected, after seeing the sparse outdoor appearance, to be greeted with nothing interesting, a single woman's home. What they were greeted with was a palatial home on a small scale, decorated almost entirely by herself. She tossed her keys into the small porcelain bowl next to the door, removing her coat and hanging it before ushering Christine inside. "You haven't been here in an age," she smiled, glancing over her shoulder down the hallway.

"Have you added any new paintings?" Christine asked, moving past her hostess and into the living room. That room was Abigail's pride and joy, the room that saw all of the action. It was in this room that she entertained anyone worth entertaining. They stared up in awe at the paintings on the walls, all by artists that they knew of, mostly due to them being infamously expensive on the market.

Abigail slipped into the room, moving behind the couch and pointing at one picture high on the wall. "That one," she said with a prideful expression. "Guess who."

"Hm, the look on your face tells me that it's an Impressionist painter," Christine pondered, going down onto her knees on the couch and crossing her arms on the back of it. "It's not of a ballerina, so it can't be Degas. In fact, it's not even a woman, so that crosses out both Degas and Renoir."

Abigail gave a bark of laughter. "Oh, you're good. Of course, you were taught well." She folded her arms over her chest and sighed, admiring the work of art. "It's a Sisley."

"Is that…?"

"Yes!" Abigail squealed. "It's the one that I've been fighting Christophe over in Provence for. Over a year of raising prices and tempering the owner! Thankfully, he was British and not a big fan of the French… or men, for that matter." She beamed a mischievous smile in Christine's direction. "Do you want something to eat, love? You look famished."

Christine slumped on the couch, resting her head against one of the brocaded throw pillows. "I want some sleep, to be honest. Food would be good, though." She looked up at Abigail, her eyes glimmering pathetically. "Lots and lots of yummy food."

"You're in luck, then! I just so happen to have lots and lots of yummy food in the fridge. How does homemade macaroni and cheese sound? I love that when I'm not feeling well, and you don't look like you're in the best mental state." She patted Christine on the head before bending down and kissing it. "We'll talk about it later. And don't tell me that you don't want to! I know you well enough to know that you do. You just don't want to be too eager to spill the beans."

Abigail disappeared into the kitchen for a few minutes, and Christine stood up from the couch, walking around the room, glancing here and there. Her cat, Ginger, was curled on the chaise lounge opposite the couch. Passing her hand along the cat's soft cream-colored fur, she smiled. Ginger and Astaire were brother and sister. On the far desk, one where Abigail usually did business during the day, there were newspaper clippings scattered everywhere. She lifted one of the larger ones up to read the tiny print. In removing that piece from the desk, a picture was revealed. Commissioner James Gordon stared up at her in black and white. The newspaper article beside it was about his promotion. The one in her hand was about his constant attempts to preserve justice in Gotham City.

"I forgot how much you liked to snoop," Abigail laughed from behind her. Christine turned, the newspaper clipping still in her hand. Her friend carried the tray in and set it down on the coffee table before going beside her. "You weren't, uhm, supposed to know about this." She snatched the article out of her fingers and set it back down, shutting the open book that they lay upon.

"Were you ever going to tell me about that?" Christine asked with a hint of a smile.

Abigail smoothed her hand over the book's cover, shaking her head. "No, I don't think I would have." She looked down at her friend; her eyes were noticeably sad despite the smile on her face. "It's all a farce," she muttered, giving a bitter snort of laughter. "Come on, the macaroni's more interesting, I assure you."

They both went to the couch, scooping up a warm mug of their piping hot dinner and settling in. "I don't know, Abby," Christine sighed, tilting her head back against the couch and spooning some into her mouth. She shut her eyes as she chewed, enjoying the rich feeling against her tongue. "I've seen him, the way he acts around you."

"I really don't want to talk about it," Abigail sighed, shifting her weight on the couch so that she was facing Christine. "I've sort of accepted it as a loss already. I mean, his wife and kids… I couldn't do that to him." Chewing absently on her food, she stared up at the ceiling. James Gordon was one of a kind, that's for sure. Ever since she'd first met him at the opening of a new exhibit, she'd been unable to stop thinking about him, about his easy smile and subtle intelligence. He wasn't arrogant like most of the men she worked with. Hell, she wouldn't have been surprised to find out that he did not even own an ego. He did everything for the city, as far as she could tell. "Let's talk about you. I'm not the one being pursued by a mass murdering psycho in grease paint."

Abigail noticed Christine flinch, and she gave a concerned frown, reaching out and patting her softly on the shoulder. "I just… really don't like it when people call him that. Or say anything bad about him."

"Oh, man," Abigail said quietly, leaning over the placing her mug on the coffee table. It was clear to Christine that she'd finished eating in an attempt to focus on conversation, and she hugged her own mug protectively. "You're in really deep. I can hardly believe this. You always did have an eye for the wrong guy, but you're taking it a bit far, don't you think?"

"I can't help it," Christine gushed, "I don't know what he's done to me. It's like I can't think without thinking about what he's said to me, or what he has done." She leaned against the back of the couch, pulling her legs up onto the cushions. "It's like… when he's around, I can't help but be afraid of him. I know what he's done. I'm not stupid or anything." She shut her eyes, sighing heavily. "But when he's gone and I start to think, all I feel is sympathy for him. He's not a good man by any means, but he's not the antichrist."

She knew that she didn't make sense. There were a few scraps of sanity left in her somewhere, telling her to listen to herself. She sounded like an addict, like an abused wife that only returned time after time for more punishment. But he'd never hurt her. He would never do that to her; he'd said that himself. "You probably think I'm a nutcase."

"Actually, I don't. I'm here to be impartial. I'll give this Joker fellow the benefit of the doubt. If you feel like this about him, he can't be… that bad." The words felt foreign on her tongue. She, too, knew what this man was capable of. She also knew that her friend was a logical young woman. She wouldn't fight for a cause that she knew was futile, especially not one that would put her safety in danger. She truly cared for this man, despite his imperfections. "Harvey and Gordon have already given you that side of things. I'm here to be your friend. Tell me about him."

Christine's eyes fluttered open, and she could hardly contain the smile that burst forth on her lips. She had always known Abigail to be infinitely patient and understanding, but she had not expected this from her. No one else would have listened to her. No one else would have let her show them the better side of J.

"There is not much to tell. I met him at Villiers', of course, at the bar. At first, he kind of creeped me out, but once we started talking, I got used to it. He still scares me sometimes, but that's only every so often." She paused, placing her mug on the coffee table and licking the spoon before placing it inside the cup. "There was a fight one night between him and Tony. Tony won. He was brought up to my room."

Slowly, she recounted every moment after that they'd spent together, every spark and every attempt to smother her affections for him in hopes of returning to normal. She told Abigail about her washing off his makeup, about how handsome the face beneath the thick layers of paint was. She told her about meeting him in My Alibi, then their kiss in the car. Every tale she wove, she wove with striking detail, details that she never would have remembered with any other man – the smell of his cologne, what his mouth tasted like, how it felt to touch his bare skin, something that few people could boast of, no doubt.

As Christine continued speaking, Abigail sat and listened. She had never heard her friend talk about a man in such a voice. She trembled when she spoke of him, but it was not a frightened shake. He had gotten down under her skin, changed her. She could not tell if her affections were nearer to love or obsession, but she figured that anyone involved with such a man would lean more towards the latter. The look in her eyes affirmed Abigail's beliefs.

Going along with this would mean arresting her morals, her beliefs. Supporting Christine's relationship would mean allowing herself to look away as he slowly destroyed her. But having her turn him away now would do even more damage. She watched as Christine seemed to sink into the couch, her body gone slack from illustrating the past few days. She even told her about her nights spent with Harvey Dent. Abigail wished that she would forget about Joker and just focus on Dent, but she knew that that was impossible. How could she forget someone like that?

Just as Christine was finishing her story about Harvey's having her arrested, the doorbell rang. Abigail gave Christine a quick, yet warm hug before standing up and hurrying toward the door. She noticed the man standing on the doorstep immediately. However, when she saw him, she did not feel that soft, enchanted feeling that usually warmed her stomach when he was around. She opened the door with a wide smile on her face. By his response of a similar smile, she knew that he did not pinpoint it as fake. "Hello, Harvey," she sighed, leaning against the door. "Come so soon?"

"I have to talk to her," he replied, looking around her shoulder and back into the house. "May I?"

Abigail nodded, taking a step back and allowing him to enter the house. "She's in the living room. But, please, don't be insensitive. She's been through a lot today."

Harvey snorted, "Her?"

"Yes, Harvey, her." Abigail's voice was surprisingly firm, and he nodded, knowing that she was serious. He disappeared into the living room and Abigail knew that it would be wise to busy herself upstairs. Her head was killing her, she realized as she staggered up the stairs and into her bedroom. Beside the bed, the cordless phone's messaging system was flashing red. She went over to it, collapsing on the bed and pressing play.

"Hello, Miss Morris, this is James Gordon from Gotham City Police Department. I was calling to thank you for watching Christine. I'm not exactly sure what's going on with her, but I do know that she needs someone like you to take care of her. It means a lot to us, Harvey and I, that you accepted. If you ever need anything, just call."

Downstairs, Christine was nearly shocked out of her skin by the sight of Harvey, and she bolted upright on the couch. "I'm just here to talk," he assured her, holding out his hand. She took it, and he pulled her up onto her feet. "Is there a guest room for you? I feel odd having such a conversation out in the living room."

"I have a room downstairs," she said softly, her eyes low. While growing up, Christine had always been friends with Abigail, even though she was much older. When she'd left for college, Christine had felt like she'd lost a piece of her. Abigail, of course, returned with precisely what she had left to achieve. Soon, she was working at the Gotham Museum of Art and the owner of this humble house. While there were only two bedrooms, one was automatically pushed off to the side for Christine. She did not visit very often, but when she did, it was ready for her.

She slipped her hand out of his grasp and showed him to the room. It was smaller than Abigail's, but as beautifully furnished. Christine sat on the edge of the bed, and Harvey sat beside her. "I came to apologize."

"You've already apologized, Harvey," she murmured. His forehead was creased as he leaned over and curled an arm around her shoulder. "You can apologize a hundred times, but that won't change anything. There's not a person in this world that can change what has happened."

"Christine, don't say that." She shook her head, but he twisted his fingers in her hair and held it still. "I haven't done anything so bad that I can't be forgiven."

Christine shut her eyes. "It's not what you've done, Harvey. It's what he's done. This has absolutely nothing to do with you. You couldn't be any more perfect, but that's beside the point, don't you see? You have no faults. How could I blame you for my falling in love with someone?"

At the word, Harvey's heart shuddered in his chest. "You don't love him, Christine."

"I don't?"

"This isn't love. It's an infatuation. You can't say no to him because you're afraid of what he'll do to you. When you realize that you can't deny him, you think that you're in love with him. It's not true. Your mind's playing tricks on you."

Ever since she'd met him, Harvey had always had a way to put pieces together, to have things make absolute sense. She felt herself drawn to him, even now, by the thought that he knew better. He knew her better. The past few days were shrouded in a confusing fog. He was that bright light that she felt forced to move towards. He knew the answers; he could save her. As he has mentioned to her the previous day, he could be the strength she needed.

Leaning into him, she wrapped her arms loosely around his waist. "I can't help but think that you're only saying these things to get me back, to have me forget about J. I can't, Harvey; 

that's impossible. If I could, don't you think that I would have tried by now? He's poisoning me. I can't stand it."

"Then why do you insist upon seeing him? If you want to be rid of him, stop putting yourself into situations where you are forced to think about him."

"You don't understand," Christine moaned into his suit jacket. "He won't stop. No matter how hard I try to have him out of my life, he only pushes back with more force. I can't stand the power he has over me, but I find it impossible to give it up."

Harvey buried his nose in her soft hair. "I've told you so many times that you have me, Christine. There's no need to worry about him, if only you'd stay with me."

Christine pulled away from him, looking up into his eyes. "Forever? Every moment of every day? He'll find some way to get to me. I can't be locked up in your apartment for the rest of my life, especially since you're never there. Do you want me to follow you? Do you want me to be your shadow?"

Brushing his fingers over her cheek, Harvey beamed down at her, shaking his head. "No, I don't want any of that. I want you to be my wife."

A gasp fell from Christine's parted lips. He didn't have a ring, it's true, but he had the best of intentions. Before she was able to answer, he leaned down and claimed her lips with his own. The kiss had a subtle gentleness and honesty that she had not felt with Joker. His had been comprised solely of necessity and desire. Harvey was slow and sweet, measured, and comfortable.

She shuddered as she felt his hand fall from her face to her thigh, sliding inconspicuously beneath the hem of her dress. Breaking the kiss, she leaned back, "Harvey, we can't. Abigail said that she didn't want this to happen under her roof." He silenced her with another kiss, leaning them back onto the bed. It cradled them in comfort, and Harvey slipped his hand from beneath her dress to the small of her back, ushering her closer against him.

Everything began to blur around Christine. She could hardly feel the fabric of her dress caress her face as he lifted it up over her head. The kisses did not burn, they merely melted into nonexistence. As he pushed into her, she gasped, but not at the sensation. She could not believe that she was allowing such a thing. She loved Harvey, but this is not what she wanted. Her mind reeled as he rocked against her, his dirty blonde hair falling into his eyes that flashed with urgency. She saw Joker in his eyes, that obsession, the light that had scared her.

She cringed in on herself, but her body ushered her to moan loudly into the silence that surrounded them. She wanted it to be over. She shut her eyes and settled back onto the pillows, arching her back with pleasure that she was ashamed to be feeling. When he was finally finished, he collapsed beside her, oblivious to the fact that she had not reacted as he had. He held himself close to her, placing small kisses on the side of her face, murmuring to her that she could give him her answer later.

Just as she was drifting off to a fitful sleep, Harvey's cell phone began to ring. He nearly jumped up off of the bed, hurrying over to the puddle of slacks on the floor, fishing out the phone and opening it immediately. "Harvey Dent." Christine watched as his face bled from interest to complete and utter shock. He did not speak another word, but shut he phone and began to get dressed.

"What is it? What's going on?" she asked, her eyes wide.

"That was Gordon." Harvey pulled on his shirt, not bothering to tuck it into his pants. His jacket lay slung over the foot of the bed; he ignored it. "The Joker has his wife."

Christine's lips fell open and she let out a strangled sob.

"You have to stay here with Abigail. I'll call you later to tell you what's happened." He went to the side of the bed, bending and giving her a hurried kiss to the temple. "I love you."

"I love you, too," she lied, watching Harvey rush out of the room before curling her arms around the comforter and burying her face into it. What was he doing? How could he be so brainless? Kidnapping the Commissioner's wife was one of the stupider things that someone could do. She just hoped that this would not lead to his being arrested. She felt the surprising warmth of tears on her cheeks.

In the background, the front door slammed.


	10. Chapter 10

_Gordon had given him directions to the warehouse where the Joker was holding his wife. It was the same place that Gordon had visited earlier and found empty. Harvey clenched his cell phone tightly in his fist. He wished he hadn't left Christine like that, but this might very well mean life or death. No one knew for sure when it came to the Joker. In fact, he might not even have Gordon's wife. It might've all been a trick to get Gordon and Harvey in an empty warehouse, away from Christine and Abigail. The thought sent shivers down Harvey's spine. If something happened to Christine because of this, because he wasn't watching over her, he would never forgive himself._

"_Could you drive a little bit faster?" he ordered his driver through clenched teeth, glaring out of the window. How dare that madman put his hands on the Commissioner's wife? She was no part of that. There was no reason or logic with him, though. Everything was a game. Harvey and Gordon were just pawns, playing pieces. They sped through the black of night toward the address that Gordon had given him over the phone, his voice noticeably shaken._

_When they finally arrived, Harvey nearly bolted out of the door and into the building. He was met by no one. Gordon was nowhere to be found. "Commissioner?" he called out into the large, empty space. His voice echoed softly in the high roof. "Is anyone here?" His eyes darted around the expanse, combing over every foot of wall, every tile, every window. The warehouse had been uninhabited for a very, very long time. Harvey cringed as he took a step forward and heard the distinct crack of a trod upon cockroach beneath his shoe._

_Outside, there was a familiar churn of an engine. He ran to a window, wiping it clean of grime with his sleeve, just in time to see the car disappear into the distance. "What the fuck," he whispered to himself, his stomach suddenly uneasy. There was the crack of a footfall behind him and he jerked around to find no one there. If anyone was there, it was too dark to tell. His breath was now coming in short bursts as he pushed his back against the wall. "Who is that?" _

_A disturbingly loud chuckle came from nowhere, bouncing off of the walls around them, filling the large room. Having never heard that laugh before, not like that, it was by association only that he recognized it. It was too maniacal, too frightening to belong to just anyone. Harvey pressed himself harder against the wall, leaning the crown of his head against the clouded window. His lungs burned with each shallow breath, and his eyes widened as a man stepped into a square of moonlight before him._

_He was wearing a well-tailored suit, comprised entirely of the colors purple and green. As Harvey's eyes trailed from his shoes to his face, he felt his knees crumble beneath him. He recognized the face on sight. After seeing it once, how could one not? His skin was painted a chalky white. His eyes were blackened. Across his mouth was a slash of bright red. It was the Joker. "You're surprisingly easy to get a hold of, Harvey," he drawled as he moved closer. "Being the District Attorney and all, I was expecting more of a wait."_

"_Where's Gordon?" Harvey asked, shutting his eyes as Joker closed in on him, standing mere inches away. "What have you done?"_

"_Ah, the Commissioner? He's with his wife, of course," he giggled, pushing Harvey's hair out of his eyes with a sweep of his gloved hand. "Whether that's a good thing or not, you'll never know!" He punctuated his sentence with a burst of high-pitched laughter, clearly amused by himself._

_Harvey's stomach churned. "Where'd you bring them? He came here. He told me he was coming here."_

_Joker held up his index finger, "But, think of this, Dent. Did he say that because it's true or because I told him to?"_

"_You won't win, Joker," Harvey spat, "No matter how clever you think you are. You won't win."_

_At that, Joker frowned, stung by his words. "Well, you're no fun. I suppose I'll just have to find someone else, then, someone that'll humor me." He paused, licking his lips as he thought of a likely candidate. His eyes flashed and a smile shot across his mouth. "Maybe __Christine_ will indulge me. Ooh, ehe, indulge." His eyebrows shot up as he backed away, throwing his arms open wide. "I already know she wants me."

Harvey lunged at Joker, but was thrown back against the wall by some unknown force. His head slammed against the window, shattering it. The pain seared down his back and over his skin as he slumped down onto the floor, his arms falling limp at his sides. His eyes fluttered open for just a moment, his vision blurred, and he watched as two men in clown masks went to Joker's side. They had done this.

He gave one sputtering cough before everything went black.

Back at Abigail's house, both she and Christine were waiting by the phone. Christine had her cell phone cradled in her lap and she stared down at it. Harvey had been gone for close to an hour now. Abigail's light sleep had been stirred by the slamming of her front door, and she'd rushed downstairs to see what had happened. Christine told her all of what happened, except for Harvey's proposal, and a feeling of dread had crept over both of them. One feared for the man she loved, and the other feared for the man that loved her.

"Where do you think they've gone?" Abigail asked from her spot on the couch, leaning her chin against her folded forearm. "Neither of them have called."

"I have no idea," Christine sighed from the chair across from her. "Harvey didn't say anything of importance to me. They could be anywhere." _And with anyone…, _she thought as she leaned her face against the cool fabric of the wing backed chair.

The quiet that settled over the room was broken by the ringing of Abigail's home phone, a strident sound. She lifted it up off of the base immediately, holding it to her ear. "Hello?" No one answered. "Hello?" she asked again. "Is anyone there?"

A heavy breath was the first thing she heard. Even the sigh was familiar. When the man spoke, tears sprung into her eyes. "Abigail, there's a car outside, waiting for you and Christine." It was Gordon. He spoke in an uneven, forced tone. "Go out to that car and get in. It will take you where you are needed." He took another shaky breath before launching into a quick string of words that he had not been instructed to say. "You'll be safe, I swear to _God_. Just get in the car!"

There was a dull thump and a gasp of pain. The tears in Abigail's eyes broke free, rolling down her cheeks, soaking into her blouse. "Jim!" she cried, clutching at the arm of the sofa with her free hand. "Listen here, you bastard! If you hurt him, I'll - "

She was cut off by a rip of laughter and a dial tone.

"What?" Christine nearly shouted, having jumped from the chair. "Who was that? Was it Gordon? Has he seen Harvey?"

"I don't know," Abigail whimpered as she stared at the phone before setting it back down on the base. "It was Gordon. There's a car outside waiting for us. It's going to take us to them." She stood up from the couch on shaking legs and wiped at her eyes. "We have to go. He'll hurt him if we don't."

When she realized that Christine wasn't following her, Abigail turned around. Her friend was staring at her, her mouth agape. "You're going to give me up to the Joker to save Gordon? I'm your best friend. How could you do something like that to me?"

Abigail's face became skewed with confusion. "You _want_ to be with him, Christine! I'm giving you what you want."

"It's true that I want to be with him, but under these circumstances? As a prisoner? No. Just no."

Christine watched as Abigail's face transitioned from confusion to rage. "I don't care what you want, Christine. If you do not leave this house and get into that car with me, I'll move you myself," her eyes narrowed and she pointed a shaking finger toward the door, "Now, are you going to come with me or do I have to drag you out of here?"

There was a seriousness to her words that caused goosebumps to rise on Christine's arms. She meant every word of what she said. Abigail was a lot larger than her and no doubt capable enough. With that realization, Christine nodded, defeated, and left the room, sliding past her to get to the door first. When she opened it and saw Harvey's car, she nearly screamed.

"Something's happened," she exclaimed. "Something's happened to Harvey! His driver would have never left him!"

She was nudged out of the door by Abigail, who shut the door behind them both and locked it. "Get into the car," she ordered, following her down the walk to the street. "Don't pay any mind to anything that happens between now and arriving at our destination. I won't. Just… keep your eyes on your lap."

Christine nodded, opening the back door and nearly collapsing onto the leather seat. The last time she'd been in this car, it had been with Harvey. In fact, the air inside of the vehicle still smelled faintly of his cologne.

With both of their minds reeling, the ride was a significantly short one. This meant that either the place where they were meeting was closer than they expected or that people in distress had no sense of time or place. When the car slowed to a stop, Abigail climbed out of the car as quickly as she could, her eyes flashing around the site in an attempt to place their location.

It appeared to be an abandoned restaurant. There was a sign out front that had probably once had a name painted on it, but the paint had long since flaked off and the metal had rusted. The front door was open, and inside she could hear something that sounded like mumbled conversation. She curled her long-fingered hand around Christine's wrist and tugged her in the direction of the entrance. She took no precautions. She did not call into the door to see if someone would answer. She did not look this way or that. She moved quickly and quietly into the dining room, ignoring all possible consequences to her foolhardiness.

Where there had once been tables with quaint checkered tablecloths, there was nothing. The bar was covered with old bottles, some empty, some full. In the corner, an ancient jukebox stood, its glass face smashed in. At the far wall, two people were seated, tied with their backs to each other, cloth haphazardly fixed around their mouths to keep them from screaming.

It was Gordon and who she assumed was his wife. Abigail rushed forward in his direction, but was intercepted by the sound of shattering glass. She twirled in the direction of the bar to see Joker kicking the glass bottles from the bar top as he moved closer to them. With each step he took, there was another bottle of booze in his way. He was balanced on the thin wooden bar by outstretched arms, and he laughed as he kicked a full bottle of vodka against the wall, its contents darkening the already molding wood.

When he was at the end of the bar, he looked up at Abigail and smiled. Even in the near complete darkness, it sent a chill through her. "Welcome," he murmured, jumping down from the bar. He stuck his landing, dusting off his jacket and popping its collar before moving closer to her. She shrunk back from his touch as he wrapped his arm around her shoulders. "A nice place for a reunion, don't you think?"

Before Abigail was able to give her scathing reply, Christine cleared her throat behind both of them. Joker glanced over his shoulder, his eyes widening at the sight of her. He hadn't expected Abigail to bring her. He had hoped she would, but not expected. No one ever agreed to his plans, especially not any like this. "Is this really necessary, J?" she asked. Her disappointment in him was clear through her voice. "All of this for me?"

He let go of Abigail and turned on his heel, heading back toward Christine. "You don't understand, but that's okay." He smoothed his hand over her hair, looking down at her with a surprisingly tender look in his eye. "They," he said, tossing his head backwards in the direction of the others gathered, "don't understand. This is how I'm going to get them to grasp the concept, Christine."

"J, please, stop being so cryptic. Tell me what this is."

"It's what you see before you," he said softly, "People scrambling with every sense they have to save those that they want."

They watched as Abigail ran across the floor to Gordon, falling to her knees in front of him and fumbling to untie the cloth that was choking him. When she touched the back of his head in an attempt to untie the knot, she felt something warm and sticky. Pulling her hand up to her eyes, she realized with horror that it was blood. The recognition hit her in the chest. He wasn't struggling like his wife was. His head was hanging, his chin pressed against his chest, his eyes closed.

She shuddered as she lifted the cloth away from his mouth and tossed it aside. The back of it was turned red with the blood. "James," she pleaded, running her fingers over his cheeks. They'd gone a sickly shade of pale. "Come on. Wake up." She let out a sob and slumped down against his knees, curling her arm around her head. Christine shut her eyes as Abigail gave a piercing scream, muffled only by Gordon's thigh.

"He's not dead," Joker stated plainly.

At the sound of his voice, Abigail lifted her tear stained face from Gordon's lap. "You," she growled, struggling to stand. "You did this to him!"

"Of course I did. Who else would have?"

She rushed at him, grasping him by the lapels and thrusting him against the wall. The old picture frame a yard off quivered and then fell from its nail, crashing onto the floor. "You weren't supposed to hurt him. None of this was supposed to happen. I brought you Christine." Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes frighteningly bright. She pulled him away from the wall and slammed him back into it. Her strength was the adrenaline that burned through her veins. "You better fucking explain!"

"Why? It's no use. I can't exactly turn back time."

"You better hope, for your safety, that he isn't dead, that no permanent damage has been done. Because if there is, I swear to _God_, I will kill you." The terror that any normal person would have felt was wasted on her. She could not be afraid of him. She felt nothing but anger. She looked into his painted face, and she wanted nothing more than to see it bruised and bloody.

Christine gasped, her hands going to Abigail's arm, trying to yank her away from him. "Abigail! Stop it! You're hurting him!"

Joker looked down at Abigail, a sick grin on his face. With every injury, he only began to giggle louder. Before long, he could hardly breathe. "You won't kill me!" he snorted, "You wouldn't dare! You know how Christine feels about that."

Abigail's upper lip curled into a sneer. "Do you honestly think I give a damn about what she wants anymore?" Her knuckles gleamed white as she twisted harder on his shirt, choking him. He coughed, chuckling. "He wasn't supposed to get hurt."

Behind her, there was a cough. She let go of Joker immediately and watched as he slid down onto the floor, smoothing his hands over his jacket. Turning away from him, she saw that Gordon had lifted his head up and was looking around the room. It was clear by the confused look on his face that he couldn't see anything.

She ran to him, falling to her knees as she had just moments before. "Oh, James," she whispered, her hand going to turn his face to hers. "You're not dead, thank God."

"Abigail," Gordon rasped, looking down at her, his eyes searching for a face that he couldn't see. "Abigail, my wife. Is she okay?" There was a hope in his eyes that made her sick to her stomach. He didn't care about her. He was only worried about his wife's well being. Abigail's shoulders slouched, and she did not respond.

Joker gave a low, mocking chuckle. "Not exactly the climax that you were expecting, Abby?"

"She's… she's fine," Abigail stammered, ignoring Joker's comment. She stood from her place on the floor and turned to him, all anger gone from her person. How could she be anything but overcome? "You can have Christine, if you set both of them free. If you do that for me, you can have her."

He stood, a thoughtful smile coating his features. "That's not all I want." He walked over to her, his strides slow, unhurried. "I want you," he paused, sliding his gloved hand along the width of her shoulders. Leaning near to her ear, he whispered, "as an ally."

"What?" she gasped. "What? Why me?"

Joker moved over to Gordon, covering his ears so that he wouldn't hear. Jim tossed his head this way and that, recognizing the touch. He bent over, shushing him. "I want you because he trusts you. You'll get me into the system."

"Your censoring will do no good," Abigail interjected. "You're not covering _her_ ears."

"Ah, true." He bent over backwards so that his mouth was close to the woman's ear. "It wouldn't be wise to say anything about this to your husband. Do you understand?"

When he had finally cut the rope tying two parts of the Gordon family to the chairs, he let them go, ordering the driver of Dent's car to get them home safely. "You're going to be a hero, Abigail," he smirked, watching at the window as the car disappeared in the distance. "You'll be very busy in the next few days. You know how excited the news gets over someone saving a life. And just think… you saved _two_."

"But there's one unaccounted for," Abigail said from the chair that Gordon had been sitting on. She crossed her legs and leaned against the back of it, staring at Joker with a blank expression. "We're missing Gotham's White Knight."

Joker turned back from the window and gave a wide smile. "They're missing him, sure, but I know _exactly_ where he is."


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N:** Sorry for the short length of this chapter! I'm absolutely exhausted after a long day of school-related things. "Why write it now, then?" you ask. Read it. I had to get this out!

* * *

As Joker had predicted, Abigail was bombarded with reporters on her way into the museum building the following day. Word had gotten around Gotham quick that she'd saved Commissioner Gordon's life. If she hadn't been so brave, he might've been killed at the hands of the Joker, the psychopath that had most of Gotham's lower criminals in the palm of his hand. Instead of politely denying any interviews as she ascended the stone steps to her workplace, she turned around and looked directly into the closest camera.

"Well? Do you have any questions for me?" She beamed a smile at the reporter, who went blank from the shock of actually having Abigail pay attention to her. No one had expected compliance. No one ever complied, especially not to them. "Yes, I saved Commissioner Gordon's life. I'm not ashamed to be proud of that. It was my way to give back to Gotham City." She gave the cameras around her another charming smile. "He still hasn't thanked me properly for it."

"Where did all of this go down?"

"Some sources say that you saved his wife, as well?"

"Do you have any idea as to the location of Harvey Dent?"

Abigail laughed, shaking her head. "So many questions! I'll answer them one by one. First, it 'went down' at an undisclosed location. Second, yes, I did. She hasn't thanked me either. Third, no, I don't. I had no idea that he was even missing." She had no trouble lying to the reporters, especially not since the happenings of the previous night. It still felt as though her heart couldn't catch up to her. When she thought of him, all she could hear was him asking for his wife.

A male reporter from some distance waved a hand in the air. She pointed at him, and he grinned. "Thank you! Uhm, I was wondering as to the real reason you saved his life. There are some rumors around that you are interested in him."

"Interested in him?" Abigail asked, stung though she would not show it on the camera. "That's just silly. Of course I'm not. I only have one love, and that's art. Which leads me to my own personal reason for agreeing to talk to you all." She looked directly into the camera that was emblazoned with stickers from Gotham's most watched news station. "I'd like to invite all of you out to a fundraiser that will be going on a week from today. We're in desperate need of funds, and it's up to you, people of Gotham, to keep this place up and running!" She flashed a pleading look at the camera before giving a light-hearted laugh. "Be a hero!"

With that, she turned around and hopped up the last few steps. Before she was able to duck into the building, however, she saw her only superior walk out. She stopped in cold blood, her eyes wide. She had caused quite a ruckus. From the look on his face, she could tell that he was not pleased with her. However, when he realized that the cameras were still rolling, his face melted into a comfortable expression. "Come on, let's go talk to them some more." He curled his arm around her shoulders and led her back from where they'd come. "We can say something about the fundraiser."

"I already did -"

"Well, we can say _more_ about the fundraiser," he pressed with a reassuring smile before waving hello to the reporters still standing on the steps. Before anyone was ready, he launched into a speech. "We at the Gotham Museum of Art are proud to have a woman such as this on our staff. She is the truthful everyday hero that we have long waited for, someone that doesn't wear a mask. The fundraiser will now be held in her honor, all money raised going to her future here at the Gotham Museum of Art."

Her cheeks flushed immediately. "What he means is that all of the money will go to my doing my job," she giggled, "which is buying more art. So, in truth, he's just stamping my name on this for the attention."

Her boss shook his head, laughing. "Perhaps, but is that a crime? I really don't think so."

On the other side of town, Christine leaned against a counter, watching as the person behind it rang up the price for a hotel room. She couldn't go back to her apartment at Villiers', not with J, and he refused to let her be rid of him. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw him staring up at one of the poorly copied prints on the wall.

"That'll be fift-," the cashier muttered in a monotone voice.

"Just put it on here," she said offhandedly, sliding her card across the desk as she watched him change direction and set his sights on the mirror across from the print. "J, what are you doing?"

He looked at her over the collar of his overcoat. She'd given strict orders to keep his features obscured, since his face was easily noticed, especially in this part of town. "Just looking around," he assured her with a yawn. It had been days since he'd last slept, and while he was tired, there was something else on his mind. Rest would have to wait. The cashier thanked Christine and handed her the key to their room.

The room was precisely what they'd paid for. There was a bed on one side and a door to a small bathroom on the other. The comforter was worn, and the lamp beside the bed fizzled in and out every so often. Sliding out of her jacket, she let it fall onto the floor. "It's not much, but it's a bed. I could sleep on just about anything right now," she laughed, collapsing onto the bed. It gave an annoyed squeak at her weight.

"I'm not really tired," he muttered, crossing the floor and leaning into the bathroom to inspect it. "This hotel really isn't that great, is it?"

Christine turned over onto her back, tucking her arms behind her head. "For fifty dollars, what did you expect? A room at Villiers'?" Joker smirked, tugging his arms out of his overcoat and draping it across the single chair. She sighed, her eyes combing over his arms and wide shoulders. When he realized she was staring at him with a less than chaste look in her eyes, his smile widened into a wolfish grin. "Come here."

He listened to her for once, moving to the foot of the bed and crawling on beside her. Placing a tiny, teasing kiss on her lips, his hands moved down her pale throat to her chest, fingering the plastic buttons on her blouse. "You're not afraid of me anymore," he concluded, looking into her eyes as he began to slip the buttons from their holes. "I think I prefer this." He curled a powerful thigh around hers, pulling her closer to him as he slipped her shirt from her pliant frame.

She stared up at him, a nearly overwhelmed smile on her face. He had removed all of his makeup in an attempt to feign normality when getting the room. "And I prefer you like this," she whispered, her voice thick. His hair hung in strings around his face. She ran her fingers through it. "But, you're right. I'm not afraid of you anymore."

His reply was a searing kiss, shockingly unlike the one they'd shared in the car. While this one held the same passion, there was a sureness in it that caused her to melt into him, a confidence. His cool fingers slipped beneath the taut underwire of her bra, curling up around her breast, digging his short nails into the skin. Christine gasped through his kiss, and he silenced her by darting his tongue into her mouth, twisting it around hers.

They fought each other for power over the other, rolling on top of the other and wrestling to get each other's clothes off. The moment she bent to bite the delicate skin on his neck, he rolled her over, pinning her arms over her head. When he let them go in an attempt to unbutton her pants, she curled her legs around his middle, rolling him over onto his back. His vest proved difficult to remove, as did her bra, especially with her constant moving. Eventually, though, they collapsed onto the pillows, their only attire a thin layer of perspiration.

Finally, Christine gave into him, watching with vision blurred with fatigue and desire as he hovered above her. She had not expected delicacy from him. She had expected nothing but pleasure mixed disturbingly with pain. He did not disappoint. Knocking her knees apart with a sure sweep of his fist, he plunged into her in one great thrust, knocking her back against the headboard. Her hands flew up to grasp it, ignoring the slight pain that shot through the back of her head.

All the same, her skin flushed and her back arched with pleasure. She had not experienced this rawness with Harvey, this confusion that lead to rabidness. Joker responded to her, moved with her and not against her. She knew that it was improbable, but she felt that he _cared_ for her enjoyment. This was not for him; this was for both of them. She felt her eyes roll back into her head as he his snaked around her back, pulling her even closer against him.

He buried his face in her hair, pushing into her as far as he could go, his entire body shuddering at the feeling of being completely within her. He felt that there was something he should say, but knew that his words would ruin the feeling that he just knew she felt. Instead, he found himself abandoning the physically straining deep strokes. As he neared his climax, he knew that she was, as well. Her entire body tensed, as did his, and he dove in for another bruising kiss as her hips bucked upwards. He emptied himself within her, collapsing just beside her, rolling her onto her side, melding their bodies together.

They lay in that position for what felt like forever. He watched as she drifted into a sleep, his own eyes heavy while his mind raced. There were things he had to do. He couldn't stay here with her. Removing himself, he pulled the comforter up over her and stood, pulling on each article of clothing before leaving her alone in the hotel room.

When Harvey finally came to, he found that he couldn't see. He shouted, but heard that his voice was muffled. There was something pulled over his head. The back of his skull ached, and he could hardly remember what had happened. All he recalled was the Joker. He remembered his laugh and his henchmen, and he remembered what had happened before he'd gotten the call from Gordon. He'd asked Christine to be his wife. His blood ran cold as he took a deep breath. The first scent he noticed was gasoline. The first sensation below his neck that he noticed was the fact that his wrists were tied behind him.

"Is anyone there? Joker?" he called to anyone that could hear. "JOKER!"

From behind him, there was a shrill laugh. He noticed it immediately, twisting his wrists in an attempt to free himself. "That's very futile, Dent," he said in a condescending voice before ripping the mask from his face. Harvey glared up at him, his blue eyes piercing. When the Joker next spoke, his tone was menacing. "No need to be angry. I'm just here to do a little arts and crafts."

"What do you mean by that?" Harvey asked, a taste of fear in his speech. "What are you going to do to me? Are you going to scar me up like you? Are you going to make me a monster?"

Joker leaned down so that his face was just in front of Harvey's. "You're not very tactful, Harvey. I'm the one with the power here. It's just not smart to offend a man like me when you're all tied up and helpless." He ruffled Harvey's hair and backed up, turning to the small red container at his side. "You see, Harvey, this is gasoline. You probably already knew that."

"Of course I did," Harvey spat, his brows knitted.

"Easy, easy," Joker warned, twisting off the cap and lifting it to Harvey's nose. "Come on. Don't you wanna make sure?"

Harvey sneered at him, and Joker shrugged, digging what looked like a paintbrush out of the pocket of his overcoat. "Fine, be like that. You don't need to talk, so long as you listen." He pulled up a stool and sat right beside Harvey, dipping the paintbrush into the gasoline. "You know where I was just now? If the gasoline wasn't so strong, I'm sure you could tell." Leaning close to him, he passed the brush across one half of his forehead. Harvey cringed. "I probably smell like her perfume."

"You _bastard,_" Harvey hissed, jerking his chair upwards and hoping that he'd be able to free himself. The gasoline had begun to drip down from his forehead, over his brow and down to his eye. The intense burning sensation caused Harvey to gag, his body convulsing in pain.

"Again, do I have to remind you who you shouldn't offend in this situation?" Joker smiled, dipping the paintbrush again. "Anyway, I just thought you should know. She couldn't keep her hands off of me. I thought he'd rip my pants right off." He sighed. The paintbrush dripped gasoline over Harvey's sculpted cheekbone. "I like that in a woman."

One eye shut, Harvey still found himself able to glare at him. "Why are you doing this?"

"Honestly?" Joker redistributed his weight on the stool, leaning one forearm against his knee. "I'm getting rid of the competition."

"You can't do anything to me that will get rid of her feelings. Physical deformities clearly mean nothing to her if she's fucked you," he growled, shoving his chest forward and jerking his wrists around. "You're pathetic, you know that, right? You're going to kill me because you can't handle the pressure."

Joker shook his head, clucking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "But I'm not going to kill you." He motioned upwards, "There's a water spout just above your head. The second the smoke reaches it, it'll go off. Not only will the water get rid of the flames, but it'll alert the fire station. You'll be saved in no time. Your _face_, however…"

Just as he finished coating one half of Harvey's face, there was a sound outside, something that sounded a lot like a car pulling up outside of the building. Joker cursed under his breath, kicking back the stool and searching with shaking fingers for the pack of matches. When he found them, he tilted his head to the side, examining the district attorney. "You're stuck, Dent. You can't be Gotham City's unblemished face of justice anymore. Not only that, but Christine won't be able to stand the sight of you. How does _that _feel?"

Harvey took a deep breath, his eyes holding Joker's with unexpected calm. "It feels great knowing that Christine will find out that her lover set fire to another man. Do you think she'll still love you after that? Do you?"

Joker bit absently on his lip as he struck a match. "Actually," he laughed, "I do." With that, he pressed the flame to Harvey's cheek. The skin began to burn immediately, filling the dark room with light.

Before he left, he stood in the doorway that he'd entered in, and listened with perverse enjoyment as Harvey screamed.


	12. Chapter 12

Christine never questioned Joker. When he came home late with the smell of gasoline heavy on his clothes, she did not inquire as to where he'd been. She knew that if she asked, she would receive and answer that she could do without. Little did she know at that precise moment, this answer would have ruined her. It would've caused her to doubt her feelings for the man, to lose trust in the fact that maybe there was compassion buried somewhere deep below the greasepaint.

But, when she had not heard from Harvey in going on three days, she began to worry. He had contacted her every day since the night at the restaurant, and now he'd gone missing. No matter how hard she fought connecting Joker's odor of gasoline and Harvey's disappearance, she found that she couldn't. He had seemed so pleased with himself when he returned, so smug, like a cat that had caught the canary.

That's when she knew she had to go to Abigail. She would have the answers.

As was expected, she found Abigail in her office on that afternoon, sitting behind piles and piles of samples sent in from every catering business north, south, east, and west of Gotham City. They were all interested in hosting the event. Christine sat down in front of the desk, and Abigail looked up at her from over a small carton of Chinese food. "I honestly don't know why they come to us with this." She lifted the chopsticks into the air. A noodle hung in the air, nearly dripping with sauce. "This is hardly a finger food. It's pretty tasty, though."

"I have to talk to you about Harvey," Christine interjected. Abigail paled noticeably, slurping the end of the noodle into her mouth and sticking the chopsticks back into the carton. "He hasn't called in days. Do you know what's going on?"

Abigail cleared her throat, patting her lip with a napkin. "I suppose I should have spoken to you earlier."

Her tone of voice told Christine that this news was the worst kind. Something terrible had happened. Her stomach churned, and she felt her blood drain from her face. "What? What is it?"

"There was an accident. He's in Gotham General."

At the word "accident," Christine jumped onto her feet. "What happened? Why didn't you tell me this before?"

"No one knows what happened," Abigail replied in a slow, measured tone. She couldn't tell Christine what had really happened. In fact, the Joker had threatened her on this very topic. Tell Christine the truth and Gordon dies. The choice between lying to a friend and saving a loved one was one that she hated to make, but she made it in the end. Gordon's life was more important to her, even if she had given up completely when it came to loving him intimately. "I didn't tell you because I knew it would upset you." _And because Harvey told me not to…_, Abigail thought, biting her tongue.

She remembered that night with spectacular clarity. As a friend of both Christine's and Bruce Wayne's, he had called her the moment he arrived at the hospital. He was an avid follower of the District Attorney's career and had funded several of his motions from his own pockets. After finding out about the accident from Gordon, Bruce had rung her immediately.

Her knees had nearly given in at the sight of him, and she shielded her eyes on Bruce's shoulder. He wrapped a protective arm around her, smoothing his fingers over her back. The entire left side of Harvey's face had been burned. Some skin was still intact, but it was bloody and discolored. Most of the muscle had been burned through, leaving sinews bare and two rows of white teeth open to the air. She heard the faint rustle of a head turning on a pillow. "Can't stand the sight of me, Abigail?" he said, his voice hoarse from screaming.

She sobbed, covering her eyes and shaking her head. She couldn't. She would have loved more than anything to look him in the face and say that it didn't bother her, but that was impossible, at least for her. Bruce hugged her against him, suddenly regretting calling her there.

"You don't have to look at me," Harvey continued, turning his eyes to the ceiling, his remaining eyelid heavy. "I just wanted to talk to you."

Try as she might, she could not forget the sight of him. With each passing moment, her crying worsened. Who could've done this? What kind of accident was that perfect, that precise? All she could see was a comparison between Harvey Dent and the man that lay in the bed before her - handsome Harvey Dent and this poor man. Bruce nodded to him when she had finally calmed down and was finally able to hear.

"The Joker did it," he murmured, taking a deep, shuddering breath. Smoke had gotten into his lungs, filling them, and he found it difficult to breathe deeply, succumbing to a fit of coughs. The pain that shot over the left side of his face caused him to grip tightly at the bed sheets, clenching his jaw until he was able to ignore the pain. "But… I don't want you to tell Christine. She chose him, and I don't want to take her away from what she wants."

"But you love her," Abigail said fiercely, twisting her hand in the lapel of Bruce's jacket, her forehead pressed against his shoulder.

Harvey rested his head back against the pillows. "I do," he sighed, his breathing a rumble at the back of his throat. "That's why I want you to do this for me. I don't want her to remember me like this." _Remember? _he asked himself. _You're not dying, you fool. The doctors have ruled that out. _But, in the end, that was what he meant. To be dead to her was to be rid of the possibility of her remembering him like this and not like how he had been just days before.

Suddenly, Abigail turned from Bruce and fell to her knees beside Harvey's hospital bed. Her eyes were closed, but she sought out his hand, grasping it with both of her own. "I can't make you that promise, Harvey. I'll try because you asked me, but if she comes to me and asks, I'll tell her. I won't tell her who did it, but I'll tell her where you are. She deserves to know that you're alive."

So, Abigail did tell her, and Christine ran out of her office. Her cab was waiting outside, ringing up a toll that she would happily pay, and she ordered him to get her to Gotham General as quickly as he could. When she reached the hospital, she stopped, staring at the automatic doors with a blank expression. What was she doing? Why was she here? She had forced herself into silence at Harvey's proposal. She had slept with J. She had done many more things, yet she was still running to this man? Why?

Taking a deep breath, she walked forward, the doors opening before her.

The nurse at the front desk, seeing the expression on her face after asking for directions to Harvey Dent's room, conducted her there immediately. Before she entered the door to the room, it was opened from the inside and Commissioner Gordon stepped out. "Oh," he excused himself, "I'm sorry." He reached out and patted Christine on the shoulder. "I don't think you should go in."

"Of course I'm going in," Christine said loudly, hurt that he would even say such a thing. Inside the hospital room, Harvey heard her voice clearly and stirred, his heart jumping into his throat. She couldn't come in. She couldn't see him like this. He wanted to call out for her to stop, but he couldn't find the words. He wanted to see her more than anything. He only didn't want her to see him. "Now, move, please."

Gordon acquiesced, taking a step to the side and allowing her to pass by him, watching over his shoulder as she moved into the room.

What she saw knocked the air out of her lungs. She stopped, her eyes wide, a freezing chill coursing through her veins. "Harvey," she choked, tears springing into her eyes. He turned at looked up at her, his blue eyes entreating, concerned. She took a step forward, and then another, moving closer to him slowly. She couldn't believe her eyes. She could have never imagined such a thing on her own. This was otherworldly. "Harvey, what happened?"

"There was an accident -"

Christine shook her head, tears falling from her eyes and coursing down her cheeks. "Don't lie to me. What happened?"

He lifted a weak arm and took her hand in his, encasing it in his firm grip. "It doesn't matter anymore. It's over; nothing can be done." There was a certain element of defeat in his town, and it hurt her. It hurt her more than anything. She knew what he meant; she knew what he spoke of when he spoke of finality. He meant two things - the accident and her being with Joker. "I told Abigail not to tell you about this."

"Why?" Christine asked, "Why would you do that?" She watched as a tear welled in his left eye, the saltiness of it searing the open flesh. His brows furrowed, worsening the pain with the movement of the muscles. He hissed, gripping his free hand around the cool metal bar on the bed.

Christine gasped. "Are you okay? Is there anything I could do?" Had she not been so intent on easing him of his pain, she would have been sobbing herself. "Where is your medication?" She began looking around the bed, inspecting every countertop, every dish, every possible place for a pill that would take away his pain.

"I refused medication," he murmured, his face surprisingly deadpan once more. In order to keep from hurting himself farther, he had to ignore all emotions, all movements of the face, subtle or not. "It's all I have to remind me that I'm still alive. At least, it was." He looked up at her, his hand still curled around hers. "I didn't think you'd come. I didn't think I'd see you again."

"That's what you wanted, wasn't it?" she asked haltingly. "You didn't want me to see you like this." As she spoke, her bottom lip quivered, and her eyes threatened to create more tears.

Harvey gave a shallow sigh, the only kind he was able to manage without coughing. "No, I didn't," he said. There was a sadness in his voice that rang out with honesty. "I never wanted this to happen, but I suppose I did nothing to prevent it. No one wants this stuff to happen to them. But, I had so many hopes for our future." _Our future,_ he thought, mockingly. _The only future for her is with that maniac. She's lost to you. Why did you say that?_

"So did I," Christine whispered, letting her hand fall against his. He shut his right eye, clutching her hand even tighter. "But, could we even be together? Our hopes are impossible now, our normal life. It can't happen."

"We could make it happen, Christine," he pleaded, his chest shuddering with a strangled sob. He didn't want the Joker to be right. He didn't want to know that Christine was disgusted by him, that she couldn't love him now that he had been rendered hideous. He wanted to prove to him that she was capable of great, insightful love, love that looked past the surface and into the person. He wanted that, but, knowing that she was in love with the Joker, he knew that it may not be in her. It was clear that she wasn't willing to fight for it.

She shook her head. "How? How could we make this work? You can't go back to your job as District Attorney, not like this. My father will not support me for forever, especially not if I'm with you. What could we do?"

"Bruce would help us," Harvey insisted.

"A charity case of Bruce Wayne?" she scoffed, shaking her head again. "That's not like you Harvey."

"Does this _look_ like the regular Harvey Dent, Christine?" he growled, his voice deepening. His fingers closed tightly around hers, threatening to cut off circulation. Before she was able to claim discomfort, he released her, pulling his arm back onto his torso and looking away.

Christine heaved a sigh. "I want this to work just as much as you do, Harvey. I want you to get better, but you won't accept any medication. The pain will drive you insane. Then where will you be? I'm looking out for myself. You have to understand this. If I was not worried for my future, I would be with you in a moment." She also feared the Joker's repercussions for her leaving him for Harvey, but he would never admit such a thing to his face.

Suddenly, he turned to her. "Kiss me."

"What!?"

He took a slow breath, steadying himself. "Please, Christine, kiss me, and then you can go. I don't care where you go or with whom. I just want this. I want this before you leave."

"But won't it hurt?" she asked, her eyes wide.

"It will," he nodded, taking her hand again, "but that's not the kind of pain I'm afraid of any more."

She looked down at him again to find that he was looking up with the eyes that had once charmed her. The other side of his face was unharmed, as handsome as he'd always been. Half of him remained unchanged. He was still half the man that he once was, which made him three times the man that Joker would ever be. Taking the smooth skin of his right cheek into her hand, she bent down over the bed and pressed her lips against his. She shut her eyes and did not take a breath, afraid of what his flesh might smell like. She ignored the feeling of his lips, the heat that emanated from the left side of his face. He brought his lips up against hers, taking in one deep breath so slowly that it did not bother his lungs.

He felt that this was the last moment he would ever see her.

They both knew that this was wrong.

Back at her office, Abigail was interrupted from her taste testing by her secretary. The girl entered the room with a flustered excitement, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. It was evident in the way she rushed in that there was news; decidedly good news. "What is it?" Abigail asked, arching a brow.

"Do you have your phone off?" she asked.

Abigail glanced toward the phone perched at the end of her desk. It had been unplugged. "I suppose I do," she drawled, settling the container of Italian food onto the desk. She was quite sick of testing things, but it was work that had to be done.

The fundraising had been going well. Bruce had donated a hearty twenty-five thousand, surprising Abigail into making a phone call to his penthouse apartment to teasingly ask him when he'd finally learned how to appreciate art. So far, they had raised nearly a hundred thousand dollars. She was exceedingly proud of Gotham City's inhabitants for sending in their checks. It showed her that her job was not wasted, that people still enjoyed the finer things.

"So, what is it, girl? Stop staring at me and give me the news!"

Her secretary grinned. "A Mr. Oswald Cobblepot just called. He saw your interviews on the television, and he has pledged one million dollars."

* * *

**A/N: **And there it is! Finished! I hope you all enjoyed the ending! :) Don't worry, though, if you're a fan of Christine, Harvey, and the rest of this lot. I'm already planning a sequel AND a spin-off story about Abigail (with the Penguin, clearly!). So, expect more very, very soon.


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